If You're Bored, Then You're Boring
by scarlettshazam
Summary: Craig is miserable and alone, and can't solve his problems without using his fists. Tweek reappears in South Park for the first time in over a year, leaving chaos everywhere he goes. But sometimes, chaos can change things for the better. Creek.
1. Rottenness and Evil

**Chapter Track: Flagpole Sitta – Harvey Danger**

**Warning: **There is going to be a het subplot, and some heavier topics are going to be discussed. If you can't handle reading about severe mental illness, abuse, and an abortion, you should probably find something else to read.****

Craig Tucker's morning routine hasn't changed since he hit puberty. His alarm blares at six forty-five in the morning. He presses snooze once. This will wake him up five minutes later, upon which he will check if his guinea pigs – Zim and Gir – need more water or food (if they do, he will proceed accordingly), he dresses himself, brushes his greasy hair, tugs his hat over his head, shoves his headphones in his ears, and heads out to the bus stop.

Normally, on days when he is not hungover in his basement with the three assholes he's resorted to hanging around, Craig stands at the bus stop alone in the mornings. He's always surrounded by a gaggle of people he knows, but that he no longer speaks to. He's been marked, in a way. He's smelly, he's angry, his parents are poor – it all reeks of trouble to those unwilling to look beyond the surface (And that includes everybody that he fucking knows, even the dipshits he hangs out with).

This morning is different, because he _is_ hungover, and he _is_ in his basement, and he _is_ with the three assholes that he's resorted to hanging out with. It's Monday morning, and he has a feeling that he's going to get an earful from his parents about what the fuck he was doing on Sunday night, not coming with them to church (which he ditched to get fucked up in his basement with Kenny and company) and not reappearing until he feels like doing so (which will probably be an hour or so after school has ended, so he has time to get high before getting yelled at). The thing about his fucking parents, though, is that no matter how much they shout, no matter how much 'concern' they express over his extended absences – at heart, they don't actually care. They just need something to be angry at, and it's usually him.

Craig's head is swimming. He's feels like utter shit. If his parents didn't work early in the morning, he'd need to shake himself out of it fast, but they're thankfully alone, locked in Craig's basement.

The novelty, nineteen fifties diner-style neon clock above the couch on which Kenny and Bebe are still asleep chirps to alert them that it is seven thirty.

Shit.

They're already late for school. Craig can't afford to skip any more classes. Principal Victoria 'intervened' with Mr. Mackey last week. They'd told him that if he was caught missing any more of his work, he'd have to be expelled. He thinks it's a scare tactic, but he doesn't know what the fuck he'll do if he does get kicked out.

Across the room, Bebe and Kenny are mostly naked and sandwiched together. The only piece of clothing that can be boasted between the two of them is Bebe's lacy zebra-print bra.

"Good _morning_, sunshine," greets an all-too-familiar and smug little voice from the opposite direction – the third asshole he allowed into his home, and graciously supplied with weed.

"I hate you," Craig responds. He doesn't bother turning back to look at the perpetrator. There's only one kid that he hangs around whose balls haven't even dropped yet, and that's Ike. On top of the fact that he seems to always be getting shitfaced with Craig and still manages to maintain a 4.0 grade average after having skipped another couple of grades, the smarmy bastard doesn't get hungover.

Ike sighs dramatically and says, "Look, jackass, I made you some coffee, so why don't you clean the sand out of your vagina and be goddamn thankful?" He chooses this as his moment to appear over Craig's place on the loveseat and offer a mug of crappy, over-brewed shit. But at least it's something.

"Ungrateful twat," expresses Ike.

"Pretentious ten-year-old," Craig says back, lifting himself into a sitting position, only so he doesn't spill hot coffee down the front of his t-shirt.

"Twelve. Learn to count, dickshit," Ike responds.

Craig opts to leave this one alone. Ike, not unlike his pompous, holier-than-thou prick of a brother, can argue a point well beyond its expiration date, and both of them know that Craig is too hungover to comprehend bickering at a point this early in the day. He tips back a swig of coffee and says, "Get those two off of my fucking couch. We have school."

Craig ascends the basement stairs to Ike's cackle of, "Since when have you cared about going to school, Goody Two Shoes?"

The way he smells, you'd think Craig had fallen asleep in a smoldering pyre of weed. Either that, or a garbage heap. He's cool with smelling a little ripe, but he draws the line at smelling like he's rolled around in a dumpster.

Zim and Gir remain asleep, hidden under their plastic igloo, when Craig stumbles into his bedroom. He shakes out a couple of pills from the jumbo bottle of generic ibuprofen that sits beside the guinea pigs' cage and dry swallows them, while searching for a t-shirt on his floor that looks like it might be clean. Craig eschews his weed-soaked tee and tosses on top the vague pile of dirty laundry beside his door. After nudging the debris on his floor around, he finds a shirt and lifts it by its short sleeves to smell under the arms. It at least smells clean_er_ than the one he had on, and so he swaps his clothes out, finds his favorite hat draped over his lamp, and yanks it over his hair.

When he returns downstairs, Kenny and Bebe are redressed in their clothing from the night before, looking equally haggard, if not worse off than Craig feels. Bebe's mascara and eyeliner from last night form dark circles under her eyes, and Kenny – Kenny tends to always look like general hell on hungover mornings.

When Bebe unlocks her car outside, Craig says, "Maybe you shouldn't be driving," mostly because she looks super fucked up and a little bit like Courtney Love.

"None of you asswipes have licenses," Bebe complains back, which is true.

"Yeah, but Ike is sober," retaliates Craig, sticking his thumb back at the cheery asshole trailing behind them.

"Ike is ten," Bebe says.

"Twelve," corrects Ike.

"Do you know how to drive, shorty?" asks Kenny.

Ike brightens, "Fuck yeah, I do. I took Kyle's car out once and did doughnuts in the school parking lot."

"You've driven once," clarifies Kenny.

"Yeah, but it counts," Ike squares his shoulders.

If he wasn't hungover, he'd just bike to school to avoid bullshit like this. But then, when Craig pauses on the idea for a moment, he realizes that his bicycle is an expensive motherfucker and not at all meant to be ridden to school. It's a Corratec, and the one other thing besides his guinea pigs that is his baby. He'd never risk it getting stolen, not at a shady place like Park County High.

Kenny and Bebe exchange a look. Craig decides that although he started this one, he'd rather nap in the backseat while they figure shit out. It's a sunny morning, so when it comes to the safer driver, he thinks that he'd go for a sober twelve-year-old over hungover Bebe. There isn't any actual danger of getting into a traffic accident in South Park, in any case. The town is too shitty and small and _safe_. The only dangers out this way are wild animals. Every fucker around is a happy, average prick, content to be secluded in their innocuous, quiet mountain town.

All he wants to do is get the fuck out of here. He's wanted it for as long as he could remember. Even as a kid, it was all that Craig could fantasize about: leaving. Once he does, you can guarantee he'll flip this hellhole the bird and never fucking come back again. He doesn't care about a single fucking thing here.

He's tried to get out before, of course. Unfortunately, the whole running-away-and-hitchhiking thing ended in tragedy, with Craig stranded in the middle of Utah with no option but to call his parents to come get him. Needless to say, they were pissed. Craig doesn't mind pissing off his folks. No, in fact, he pisses them off most of the time. It is merely that after the Utah Incident, they were pissed on a whole new level than any that Craig had ever witnessed before.

He vowed never to run away again, no matter how tempting the idea, and so here he is, stuck. He's stuck in South Park, and his only escape option for the time being is getting fucked up with these three.

When they join Craig, piling into the car, Ike is the one with the keys in his grip. Bebe sits beside him in the passenger's seat, Craig assumes because she wants to ensure to the best of her hungover ability that Ike won't crash her car into a tree. Craig yanks his hat further down over his ears when Kenny climbs into the back beside him.

"Craig."

"Craig," Kenny pokes him.

An inadvertent chuckle escapes him before he can contain it, and he shoves Kenny away with a, "Shit. Fuck off, you asshole."

Tragically, nobody is ever as hungover as Craig is.

Possibly the only benefit of living in such a small town is that everything is nearby, and though Kenny pesters Craig throughout the drive to Park County High, it is thankfully short.

"I'll see you at lunch, yeah?" Craig says. He shares few classes with the people that he hangs out with, and in the ones he does share with them, it's often with Ike.

"Yeah, I have a feeling that I'm gonna need to be _super high_ to handle today," Kenny remarks, scratching a hand through his shaggy hair. He says this mostly every morning, and Craig doesn't blame him. High school is the pits. He swears, the only place on the planet worse than high school is middle school, if only for the onset of puberty that forces one to live at his most ugly and awkward for three years. He's still ugly and awkward, but at least it's on a humane level.

Kenny leans over and pulls Bebe into him by the waist. Craig rolls his eyes when they smash their mouths together. Those two are the grossest kissers, but oddly, they have the courtesy to keep it to themselves the majority of the time. Craig doesn't understand the dynamic between them. They're not 'together' on a 'Facebook Official' level, and they both fuck other people when the fancy strikes, but Kenny and Bebe mostly seem to be just into each other. They're both hot messes and both sexually insatiable, so nobody finds this to be a surprise.

"Get a room," says Ike.

"What are you, six? Who the fuck even says that anymore?" Kenny complains, going in for a second kiss. Ike looks offended. He always does when somebody points out when he accidentally says something that sounds young. He's told them all on multiple occasions that he fancies himself an _old soul_, trapped in the body of a kid. Craig is inclined to believe that it's actually an _old brain_ trapped inside that kid, complete with dumbass-child soul.

Craig leaves before they can drag him into the mix. That, and he really fucking needs to get to class. At this point, he'll only be twenty or so minutes late, and that doesn't count as skipping, though it will earn him a detention, he's sure.

Craig tugs on the braided strings of his hat to pull it further down over his eyebrows before he slogs into the American History classroom. Clyde lifts his hand to wave, but pauses, and it sinks back down before he can. A pang of pain spears through Craig, and he frowns before taking his desk in the back of the classroom.

"How kind of you to join us, Craig," Mr. Garrison says snidely, "I'll see you after class, as usual."

Craig flips him off. Mr. Garrison ignores this, and moves on.

He doesn't know why he's here. He doesn't know what he's doing. Craig doesn't know what he's doing most of them time, really, and he sure as hell doesn't understand the point of this. All that's given in this class is some glossed-over, whitewashed version of history that makes everybody's ancestors sound vaguely less douchey. It's not real history. Anybody with Google fucking knows that.

Craig spends his time in this class sleeping off the remains of his hangover. The coffee and pain killers helped, but there's still that underlying nausea that makes him wonder why he keeps getting fucked up at stupid times. He resolves to drink only on weekends (a resolve that will last exactly until somebody pisses him off again. And let the record show that Craig is pissed off by basically everybody and everything).

Out of necessity, Craig managed to create a state of sleep in which he could nap and hear teachers speaking at the same time, almost like an echo in his brain. It's a trained sort of school-sleep that began around sophomore year, when he realized that no matter what he did, he couldn't please fucking anybody else, so he may as well just please himself. This state of sleep annoys Garrison to no end –

"Craig, are you fucking paying attention?"

"Yes," he states sleepily, not bothering to even open his eyes.

He doesn't open his eyes at all, in fact, until the bell rings, jolting him out of his comfortably slouched position and in action. Before he can sneak out the door, though, Garrison grabs his backpack and holds him back.

"And exactly where do you think you're going?" he demands.

"Class," replies Craig.

"You've got detention today, you hear? One more time and I'm kicking you out of class, Craig," Garrison warns.

"Yeah, okay," Craig says, even though he kind of cares. He needs to graduate, if only to have an avenue out of South Park.

Having to legitimately give a shit about his attending his classes is becoming detrimental to his mental health, he fucking swears. The urge to smoke a joint with Kenny during lunch becomes almost overwhelming as he dumps his books into his locker and collects his junk for English. English is a class that he cares even less about than American History, probably because he's terrible at it. The only thing that he seems to be good at is gym class, and who the fuck cares if you're good at gym? Nobody's supposed to be good at gym. It's like some unspoken high school law.

He is thankfully timely in his arrival to English class, enough so that he snags a seat near the window and can drift off. Their teacher is one of those happy-go-lucky, hippie types that lets them sit where they want, even if Stan and Kyle won't shut the fuck up, and even if Cartman situates himself so that he's at the perfect angle to throw paper footballs at the back of Butters' head.

Some days, Craig wishes that he could pull his hat down further over his ears. But he can't, so he's stuck hearing all of these idiots whisper about inane shit throughout the entire class. It's not that he cares about hearing what they're taught, necessarily, but more that Craig doesn't want to hear _anything_. He'd rather that they all be silent and read the textbook. But no, the artsy English teacher had said on the first day of the year that she "didn't want to have the textbook be their teacher, because that was her job." Instead, they must be interactive. She has spent the entirety of the few weeks that they've been here trying to get Craig to participate, without actually threatening to take away points of any kind off of his grade.

In short, Ms. Babcock is annoying, but she isn't a viable threat.

The bell rings, and Craig starts to doodle on the corner of his notebook. He's terrible at drawing everything but bicycles. He knows how that sounds – like he's some sort of self-righteous hipster shithead like Kyle or that Bridon kid in the grade below theirs. He isn't, though. He just likes bikes. He liked to draw them when he was a kid, too, not that anybody appreciated the artwork.

"You're a little bit tardy, Mr. –?" he hears Ms. Babcock announce in a sing-song voice.

Craig glances up. He can't help but feel a little proud that he isn't the one that she's scolding. Instead, it's –

Uh.

Whoa.

Is that –

It can't be.

But it is. It's Tweek motherfucking Tweak.

Tweek Tweak hasn't been seen or heard from since the tail end of their sophomore year. They're seniors, now. And he's returned to join them, apparently.

He doesn't look the same as the Tweek that left them. He'd been small and easily frightened. He'd had no friends and seemed to like it that way, since Tweek hadn't even let the kinder of the weird kids (Butters, mostly) talk to him.

The guy looks fucking scary, now. He's got at least a foot on the height he was when he left. Craig can't tell if he's filled out in the middle, because he wears a huge, ratty-looking trench coat that makes too much noise as he walks in, like he's hiding a bunch of shit in the inside pockets. He's still trembling like he's on a constant vibrate setting, but it isn't like he used to, not really – especially since his face isn't that same constant expression of worry. It's blank, devoid of any of the typical emotions that they'd all come to associate with Tweek.

"Tweek Tweak," he answers. His voice is deeper, too. Softer, even.

What the flying fuck? Nobody knows where this kid ended up. Craig always assumed that he'd ended up quarantining himself in his bedroom and getting homeschooled there, having food brought to him like an invalid. In any case, he's returned looking like a criminal.

Looking kind of…_cool_, actually. Craig doesn't exactly have room to speak on the 'looking like a criminal' front. He's greasy and pierced and several different levels of an asshole.

"Tell us about yourself, Mr. Tweak," she says brightly.

Tweek spares a lackadaisical gaze for the seated students and says, "I like art." They wait for him to say something more, but he doesn't.

"Why don't you take a seat, um, next to Mr. Tucker back there?" suggests their Ms. Babcock.

That conniving skank. She thinks that she can get Craig to have more friends, and this is one of the ways that she tries implementing her meddling nature. The new kids always sit next to him. Fuck. Craig puts his feet up onto his chair and sets his chin on his knees, pulling at his hat and glowering. He hates them all. All. Every. Last. One.

Tweek doesn't make any indication that sitting next to Craig bothers him. He simply traipses back and sets his books down, slouching low into his chair in an un-Tweek-like fashion. He doesn't say anything, and Craig doesn't know that he wants anything to be said. He was kind of a dick to Tweek throughout middle school, and up until the time that Tweek vanished off the face of the planet.

Okay, fuck, fine. Craig was a total, all-out prick to Tweek. He was to most people, though. It's not like he'd singled Tweek out _that_ much. It's just that Tweek had made it easy to get picked on. He was all short and shrieky and high-pitched and scared of everything that moved. Hell, he'd been scared of things that didn't move, too. Still – Craig estimates that he'd bullied the fuck out of Butters just as much. He'd gotten bored of teasing people, though. The shine wore off, right around the time that Craig had caught Butters crying in the upstairs boys' bathroom.

Ms. Babcock launches into the lesson, something about whatever part they were supposed to annotate in The Color Purple over the weekend, when Craig had been too busy getting high and fucked up with Kenny and Company.

There's this fucking _noise_ that somebody's making, and it's driving Craig crazy. It's like a faintly clicking pen, but when he surveys the other students, nobody's moving except for Kyle and Stan, who are passing notes and leaning in close, almost like lovers would.

He thinks it's coming from Tweek.

Upon closer inspection, he can't say _where_ on Tweek the clicking noise is coming from. He's sitting almost perfectly still, except for his trembling. Man, he looks so much older close up. His hair is longer, like a mane, and shiny with grease, just like Craig's probably is under his hat (he doesn't even bother looking in the mirror, these days. It's a disappointment every time). Craig remembers Tweek's parents making him keep his hair unfashionably short in middle school because he'd tear it out when he got stressed, which was most of the time. His face seems longer, too, somehow. Maybe it's because his face is so blank.

He's clicking his teeth. There's slight movement in his jaw. You wouldn't notice it unless you're up really close –

Tweek turns his head and stares directly at Craig with wide, light eyes.

"Can I fucking help you?" he asks.

Craig scowls, "Quit clicking."

"What, this?" Tweek sticks his tongue out. Through his tongue, there is a shiny silver bar. He clicks it against his teeth antagonistically.

"Are you five? Cut that shit out," Craig grinds out.

This encourages Tweek instead of intimidating him, as Craig had hoped. He just keeps _fucking clicking_ that thing, faster, now that Craig has asked him to stop twice.

So, Craig follows through with the only reasonable solution.

He punches Tweek in the face.

The classroom goes dead silent. Somebody gasps – he thinks it's Millie, maybe. Tweek's head snapped back from the impact of it. Craig expects Tweek to cower, or shout, or any of the things that he used to do before, but he doesn't. Instead, he pops his neck and wipes at his bleeding nose.

And then, he punches back. This is no mere punch, however. Tweek surges up from his seat and yanks Craig out of his, shoving him back onto the ground. Craig's hat fortunately softens to blow when it cracks against the classroom floor, but it doesn't make him any less fucking pissed that some twitchy little shithead punched him in the face.

Craig can't get up, though. Tweek is straddled on top of him, and he punches Craig again. Craig struggles and tears himself up. He growls low in his throat and pushes Tweek, yanking on his hair, because it's the only tactic that he can think of in his state. Tweek hisses through his teeth and reaches for Craig's head. Craig dodges, kneeing Tweek in the gut.

"Boys! Separate yourselves this instant!" insists Ms. Babcock behind them. Blood is flying. It always does when Craig gets into a fight. He knows how to use his fists and use them well. It's been that way for a long time, out of what Craig feels is necessity more than anything.

Tweek throws Craig's hat across the room.

"Bad move, bitch," Craig spits, and he flies on top of Tweek, crushing him down against the floor.

"Dude, this is fucking sweet," Cartman says behind them. The asshole has his phone out. Craig bets that the fight will be on Youtube before school even lets out. One day, he swears he's going to crush that fucking phone. Cartman has filmed almost all of his fucking fights. It's tiresome, to say the least.

Tweek cuffs Craig in the nose.

"_Fuck_," he cries out. His temporary pause gives Tweek the advantage, and he uses it to flip Craig on his back again. Craig complains, "Hey, asshole, piercings are off limits."

"Sorry," Tweek sarcastically says, and he throws his fist into Craig's face again, "I fight dirty."

In the next moment, they're torn from each other by two security guards. Craig shouts and swears, giving Tweek's long hair one last yank with a, "I'll get you, bitch!"

"Like fuck you will," and Tweek manages to throw out his body and kicks Craig right in the stomach, before they're dragged off.

This is how they end up seated side by side in Mr. Mackey's office, both holding tissues underneath their noses. Craig pulls the Kleenex away only to try and adjust his septum ring back into place. He winces at the sting and mutters, "Fuck."

It isn't until Mr. Mackey enters the office carrying both of their files (Craig's looks like a novel, whereas Tweek's is basically nonexistent) and sits across from them that Craig realizes the gravity of the situation. He's about to get his ass suspended. Again. He can't fucking afford to do that. He's treading a line so thin that he could fall at any moment, and this is sure to push him into expulsion.

"Mmkay," Mackey hums to himself as he looks over the paperwork in front of him. He sets his elbows on his desk and folds his fingers together, surveying them both, "Well, boys, I've got to say I'm pretty disappointed in you. This is your first day back, Mr. Tweak, and this is the second incident that you've had today. As for you, Mr. Tucker – this is looking like enough material for expulsion."

Craig's heart sinks low in his chest. He doesn't know where he's supposed to go if he gets kicked out of here. He doesn't have a car, and the next nearest high school is in Buena Vista, forty-five minutes out from here.

"But maybe if we can clear up what happened here, we can come up with a less severe solution, mmkay?"

"It was my fault!" exclaims Tweek.

Both Craig and Mr. Mackey's heads swing to him.

"I'm sorry," Tweek says, and he sounds fucking _sincere_, of all the things, "I punched Craig first." Which he definitely didn't, but okay. Craig tries not to look as surprised as he feels, because – fuck yes – of course he'll take an opportunity like this one to wiggle his way out of trouble.

"It says here that Craig threw the first punch," Mr. Mackey says, holding up one of those stupid-ass witness account papers.

"They must not have been watching, then," Tweek reasons. He folds his arms over his bloodied trench coat, shuffling and making that sound like his pockets are full of too much junk. Tweek adds, "Craig was just defending himself. I'm sorry."

"You do realize that you'll be suspended for this, mmkay Tweek?" asks Mr. Mackey.

"Yeah, whatever," Tweek responds, which is the opposite of what one should say after getting hauled into the counselor's office by a beefy school security guard, but Craig doesn't want to argue against his sheer dumb luck.

"I still have to suspend you too, Mr. Tucker," Mr. Mackey adds. He begins filling out the paperwork, humming to himself under his breath.

Craig tosses a confused look to Tweek. In return, Tweek removes the tissue out from under his nose, sticks out his tongue, and starts clicking his tongue ring against his teeth.

What a dick.

They are forced to sit idly by as Mackey rings up both of their parents. As expected, Craig's parents sound like they're speaking through gritted teeth and are one step away from rage. Tweek's parent's, on the other hand, sound like nothing of the sort.

"_Of course, Mr. Mackey. We're very sorry. Tweek, baby, we talked about how to handle these things. Your teachers are all aware of the situation – you don't need to ask to excuse yourself._"

"I know, mom," Tweek says back at the speakerphone, sounding thoroughly admonished. To be fair, Craig hasn't faintest idea if he's acting or not.

"_I'll be there in a few minutes to pick him up_," Mrs. Tweak says. She sounds a little weary, and Craig wonders if he should feel bad for starting shit with her son.

They're sent out together to wait for their parents in the tiny waiting area, with their suspension paperwork in hand. Craig plops down in a chair, expecting Tweek to sit as far away from him as possible – but he doesn't. He sits directly next to Craig. He extracts something from one of the outside pockets of his trench coat and drops it in Craig's lap.

It's his hat.

Craig's brows raise of their own accord. He tugs his hat down over his hair, now tangled with blood. They stay silent for a few minutes, before Craig asks, "Why did you lie?"

"You looked sad," Tweek replies.

"I looked sad," echoes Craig.

Tweek clarifies, "You looked like you were about to piss yourself, actually."

"Man, you're fucking weird," Craig says.

"Preaching to the choir, asshole," responds Tweek.

They fall back into silence. Tweek starts clicking his piercing against his teeth again, sneaking occasional glances at Craig, as if documenting how long it will take to piss him off again.

Tweek clears his throat and says, "Did Bebe's tits like, expand to three times their size while I was gone?" He makes a squishing motion in front of his own, much-flatter-than-Bebe's chest and remarks, "I bet she could suffocate a guy with those things."

Craig feels his mouth hanging open and forces it to close before he asks, "Did you just bring up Bebe's boobs."

"They're nice," Tweek defends, "That's all I'm saying."

Craig is having trouble comprehending this. Last time he saw this kid, he would have marked him "Virgin Forever." He was essentially sexless, and he never once spoke of people he found attractive. Now Craig wonders if Tweek kept his attractions silent because he didn't want to be teased. Maybe he saw what being loud about one's crushes (like Butters) got you in return (getting the shit kicked out of you).

"They're nicer with her shirt off," Craig contributes.

"Bullshit," Tweek says, "I had you pegged as liking cock – you've seen Bebe's tits?" He opens up his trench coat and reaches inside, extracting a case of Tic Tacs. He dumps a couple in his mouth and offers it to Craig, who declines.

"Bebe is just like, super horny when she's high," Craig explains, "She's like the girl version of Kenny. I bet that's why they fuck so much, you know. 'Cause it's like they're having sex with themselves or some shit."

"Jesus, I'd never fuck myself," remarks Tweek, "I'm too crazy. Plus I like dark hair, mostly. I guess Bebe's rack overrides that or something. I bet if I was a girl, I'd have a killer set of tits."

"Do you just say whatever you're thinking?" Craig finds himself asking.

"Pretty much," Tweek responds, "Like, I'd totally stick my dick in you. How's that?"

"_What._"

"I know, you're straight or whatever. It's a compliment, trust me," Tweek says, and he starts clicking again.

Craig isn't sure if there's something that he should say. He's never been told that in his life. He doesn't think he's ever been hit on, unless you count the combined powers of Bebe and Kenny when they're high off of their asses. Finally, he decides upon saying, "I'm not straight." He hasn't confessed this to anybody, not really. He hasn't ever felt the need, mostly because he hates people too much to become attracted to one of them. Kenny sort of knows, but that's really only because they've had their hands down each other's pants – for which neither of them was sober, just for the record. Craig finds Kenny a little gross, if he's being honest.

"I don't know what I am," Craig adds, another thing that he hasn't bothered say to anyone.

Through the windows beside the door to the counselor's office, Craig can see Mrs. Tweak rushing forward in a snappy set of bubblegum pink high heels. Tweek stands, pulling his messenger bag onto his shoulder. He says, "That's cool. Sexuality is weird, man," and when Mrs. Tweak comes into the office, he greets, "Hi, mommy."

What a fucking weird kid.


	2. Wrong Side of the Fence

**Chapter Track: Fly Away – The Living End**

Mrs. Tweak draws Tweek into her arms like she hasn't seen him for weeks and plants a large, sticky-sounding kiss in the center of Tweek's forehead. When she pulls away, there's a huge magenta print of lips on Tweek's skin, but neither of them seem to care. Tweek slips his hand into her perfectly manicured grip, like that's a normal-ass thing for a seventeen-year-old boy to do.

They walk away out of the office like that, hand in hand. Watching their backs as they disappear down the hallway makes Craig feel strangely empty, and he doesn't like it. He crosses his arms over his chest and sinks lower into his chair.

His father isn't as prompt as Mrs. Tweak is. Both of Craig's parents work in Bailey, which is about an hour from South Park. He'd have walked home, but strictly enforced school policy calls for parents to come pick up their delinquent offspring. While he waits, he shoves his headphones into his ears, scrolling through the brick-sized iPod that once belonged to his younger sister, and was passed up to him when she got a sleeker, smaller model. Craig tends not to discuss his taste in music with others, since the collection is relatively limited. He seems mostly to be stuck in the nineties, and anything recorded beyond – he pauses to think about it – like 2002 is just weird shit that he's probably the only fan of.

Like everyone else on the planet, Craig is kept sane by music. It calms him down when he spots his father approaching from the end of the hallway, looming forward in angry strides. Craig goes rigid and sits up straight in his chair, which feels significantly more uncomfortable than it did a mere thirty seconds before. His dad isn't happy. Not that Craig expected him to be anything else when he found out that Craig had gotten into _yet another_ brawl with another student, and was suspended for the millionth time in his life.

His dad doesn't speak when he pries open the office door, and Craig is relieved. He would much rather endure an icy, awkward silence than be yelled deaf.

Regrettably, the silence lasts only until they are safely outdoors. The goth kids, Kenny and Bebe are smoking close by, standing in the blind spot between two security cameras. When Kenny spots Craig, he mouths, "What happened?"

Craig only shakes his head in response.

"What the fuck is your issue?" demands his dad. Craig winces, but doesn't say anything. He knows from experience that it's better not to interrupt his father's tirades, and instead submit it to it the entire way through. He'll get his anger out, and then he'll be okay. Craig knows the routine because that's how he works, too. After he's scuffled with one of his classmates, he always feels a few serene minutes of nirvana.

It is, alas, only those few minutes. And then he'll remember who he is, where he is, and the shitty life that he leads.

"I was in the middle of my goddamn shift, you little shit," Thomas Tucker raves, "You know how much fucking money you've cost me with this bullshit? Is this all you're ever going to be? You're a fucking hassle, Craig. You cost me valuable fucking time and money with your stupid-ass shit, _again_."

His dad unlocks the car, pausing his diatribe while Craig slouches silently into the passenger's seat.

"Sit up straight," his dad commands, and so Craig does.

Thomas immediately resumes shouting. He goes red in the face as he drives out of the Park Country High parking lot, slamming his fists down on the steering wheel when he feels that he's made a particularly good point about Craig pulling idiotic stunts.

Craig doesn't know why he does it – the fighting. It's just that it's his first instinct – to throw punches. It has been for a long, long time. When somebody grates on him, pressure builds up in Craig's chest until he explodes, and he tends to explode using his fists.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah," Craig mumbles.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Yes, sir," he amends.

They pull into their garage. Craig tugs his backpack onto his shoulders, hoping to get in the house and far away from his father as soon and as quickly as he can manage it. Thomas shoves him through the doorway and makes him stumble across the worn carpeting.

"Don't bother joining the family for dinner," his dad says, voice bitter.

Good. Craig doesn't mind that. In fact, he relishes the opportunity. It means that he can lock himself in his room for the rest of the day and sleep, and he'll forget all about this bullshit. In fact, he'll get on that, now.

Craig is pissed at himself for fucking shit up again, so he has to make an effort not to slam his bedroom door. He locks the door and leans against it, pulling his hat down over his eyes. He releases a rattled breath and drops his backpack on the floor.

Craig wriggles under his bed. It's disgusting underneath it, and he sneezes from the dust before he finds his prize – a cheap bottle of vodka that Kenny sold to him last week. He frowns when he thinks of money. He's fucking broke as shit. There's too much sludge in his mind, all this stress and eternal bullshit that he can't cleanse himself of, no matter how hard he tries. The only thing that works is to dull it down, to fuck his brain up until it's too dizzy to focus on anything.

The sound of Zim and Gir shuffling in their cage manages to calm him down enough to stop his hands from shaking so that he can screw the top off of the vodka bottle. Everything may suck total dick, he reminds himself, but at least he's got a half-full bottle of alcohol and a damn handsome pair of guinea pigs.

Craig retrieves his iPod from his backpack and pumps Alice in Chains into his ears as he tips back a swish of vodka. He moves himself onto his bed and pulls his covers up over himself. He punctuates lyrics with swigs of alcohol, until he has successfully put himself in a comfortable fog.

He sets the vodka bottle aside and curls up. He falls into a dreamless sleep, happy to have the extra time to sleep off the remains of his hangover, which, while only a dull thump in the back of his mind, still wears at him.

Craig's head is even heavier when he wakes several hours later. It's dusk outside, and he can hear his parents shouting about something downstairs. It's probably him that they're shouting about. It usually is. And why shouldn't it be? They have no reason to be fraught over his sister. Ruby is a B student and plays JV volleyball and soccer. She's an all-American kid and gets shit done without a single care. He doesn't know how she does it, and she doesn't know how he can do what he does, which is typically getting high and forgetting about it. He and his sister don't understand each other. Her world is an entirely different one than Craig's, even though their bedrooms sit beside each other and he's known her from birth. Even then – it's like he knows _of _her, not that he really knows her. He doesn't care to know her, really. Their parents seem fond of Ruby, and that's enough to put Craig off of her for the rest of their lives.

He's fucking hungry. He hasn't eaten all day, and he doesn't want to even think about dealing with what'll happen downstairs if he tries to sneak snacks from the pantry. Fortunately, this isn't the first time that he's found himself in this position, and so, in the same place that he stashed his vodka, there is a bag of Cheetos. He opens it and pops a couple in his mouth. That's about all the prompting he needs before devouring the entire package, and he finishes by tipping the faux-cheesy crumbs into his mouth. They're gone too soon, really, and his stomach still feels empty.

Craig unlocks his door and pokes his head out, making sure the coast is clear before he darts across the narrow hallway and into the bathroom to relieve himself. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, always something regrettable. He has a black eye, and there's still blood on his face that he never cleaned up. He splashes water on his face and flicks off the red-brown droplets back into the sink before taking a piss.

Maybe he should take a shower. It would feel like an accomplishment after a day like this.

So he does. He makes it quick, just long enough to scrub the grease from his hair and the scent of weed off of the rest of his body. The purpose may be defeated, however, by the fact that when he towels himself dry, he redresses in his clothes from earlier today.

Ruby is in the hallway when he exits. They stare at each other for a long moment. Craig assumes that she's surveying the damage on his face. Tweek has one _hell_ of a nasty right hook. That's fine. Though left-handed, Craig can deliver a sick punch with either hand, and he's sure whatever bruises are on him are twice as bad on Tweek.

Maybe he should apologize or something.

The guy did get Craig out of expulsion.

Fuck. He doesn't know what would have happened if the news had been that Craig was expelled. It wouldn't have been good, though.

Craig tears himself out of his sister's gaze and back to his bedroom, where he closes the door and locks it behind him, and checks his phone.

_From: Kenny: whoa dude no way u fought tweek_

_From: Kenny: r u ok_

_From: Bebe: Hey baby is everything alright? _

Craig may mostly hate them, but he's happy to see that somebody gives a damn about what happened after he left the school. He imagines that Kenny and Bebe are probably fucking at Bebe's house, but he shoots off a text back anyway.

_To: Bebe: when youre done fucking can i come over?_

Bebe is more prompt than Kenny about replying to text messages, and also less likely to send Craig a pickup line instead of an actual response. Craig is almost convinced that the first thing that Bebe does after she's had sex is check her phone, though in this case, that would work to his advantage. He needs to get the hell out of here.

Then again, if Craig goes over there, they'll probably be all cuddly and cheerful and in the midst of post-coital bliss. That'll piss him off inevitably unless he takes the necessary precautions.

Obviously, the only viable solution to this problem is to jerk himself off. He probably would have ended up resorting to doing so in any case – one often runs out of things to do alone in his bedroom.

Craig reclines back into his bed and opens his fly, pulling out his dick and giving it a few sure strokes to make himself hard. He sighs softly at the sensation, curling his toes.

He doesn't usually think of anything when he jerks off. He lets his mind sit in a haze of nothingness, and if any thoughts do surface, they tend to be about inane shit. Now, it's about how much laundry he has to do, or if there's any homework that he has in the classes that he missed. He starts thinking on the fight, and how fucking stupid he's been today.

Tweek was straddling him.

_Oh, shit._

He's got a tongue piercing.

_Stop right there,_ he tells himself, but his order is made in vain. He thinks mostly of how candid this new Tweek was, how his brain seemed to lack the prescreening function one performs before they speak to other people. Then he thinks of how tall Tweek has gotten, and that off-putting look in his wide eyes.

"Damn it," he mutters. He arches off of the mattress and into his hand, whining a little in the back of his throat. Craig uses his free hand to stifle the noise. God, the last thing he wants to happen after this fucking day is for Ruby to hear him getting himself off.

Craig's hand moves faster. He gasps into his cupped palm and fumbles for the box of tissues on the floor next to his bed. He yanks one out of the box just in time to think of Tweek cheery declaration that he would happily "stick his dick in him" and comes into the tissue. Craig presses his face into his pillow and groans.

Jesus Christ, why does that turn him on so much?

That should _not_ turn him on as much as it does.

He casts the soiled tissue someplace on his clothing-littered carpet and zips himself back up. He hopes that Kenny and Bebe are almost finished with each other, because as much as he'd rather be alone, he doesn't want to be at home right now.

Downstairs, his parents are arguing again. He exhales a small breath, and crosses the room to his guinea pigs. He pulls out Gir and strokes his fur. Craig half-wishes that it was safe to hazard the lower level of this shithole so that he could procure the bag of baby carrots he has stowed in the bottom drawer in the refrigerator, just for his guinea pigs. They deserve better than this household. Craig is certain that the arguing between them all, though constant enough to be background noise to him and to Ruby, stresses his little guys out.

"I'll get you guys treats tomorrow," he promises, just as his phone vibrates where he laid it beside his pillow. He deposits Gir back into the cage.

_From: Bebe: Yeah come over whenever baby. We're watching movies in the basement so just let yourself in._

_To: Bebe: stop calling me baby_

_From: Bebe: Never _

_From: Bebe: baby_

He rolls his eyes and pockets his phone, slipping on his beaten-up Vans and his winter coat.

Craig's window used to have a tree that he could grab onto and shimmy down, but it got sick last winter and they had to have it removed. Now, when he wants to sneak out, he has to stretch onto the steep roof that is barely to the side of his bedroom window, and slide down the drain pipe. This task isn't typically challenging if one is sober, but Craig is definitely not. He ends up falling before he can even reach the pipe, landing in a heap in a half-melted, half-iced over snow drift with an _oof._

Craig pulls himself up and dusts bits of ice off of his jacket.

Bebe's house isn't far. Like he's said, the nice thing about living in a town as small as South Park is that you don't ever have to travel far to get where you need to be – unless, of course, you have the misfortune of needing something outside of town. Then it's at least forty-five minutes out.

When Craig steps up onto Bebe's stoop, he sends a quick reminder text to the both of them that he's there and that they'd better be clothed.

And they are, to his relief. Mostly. Kenny's wearing nothing but boxers patterned in red lip-prints and his God-awful hoodie that he's had for ages. When his growth spurt hit and the sleeves got too short, Kenny hacked them off with a pair of Bebe's sewing scissors, so it became an orange, mutilated, hooded vest-thing. Bebe, on the other hand, is more covered-up than Craig sees her just about ever, in plaid pajama pants and a grungy concert t-shirt so faded that Craig can't read the name of the band.

"Hey," Bebe says brightly. She holds out her arms for a hug and says, "Come cuddle."

"No," replies Craig, and he seats himself on the opposite side of the futon, "What are we watching?"

Bebe ignores him and queries, "Dude, what the shit happened today? Is your eye okay?"

Kenny contributes, "Is your _piercing _okay? I did a nice job on that one, man."

Craig fiddles with the ring in his nose. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did directly after Tweek hurdled into it with his fist, but it's still a little sore. Craig answers, "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"What did he do?" asks Bebe, who is always curious about what people did to provoke Craig into his numerous bouts of fisticuffs.

"He was clicking his tongue ring on his teeth," Craig explains.

"Dude, sick," Kenny responds, "He has a tongue ring? Man, I wonder what the fuck happened to him. He seems even weirder than he was before he left. Like, he was holding his mom's hand when they came out to the parking lot."

"I think it's sweet," Bebe contributes, "And he's _tall_." Bebe, being on the taller side for a lady, never fails to express her appreciation of a man whose height dwarfs her own. Tweek Tweak's new height is definitely in the running, although Craig thinks that the heavy-looking work boots that he's been wearing on his feet contributed.

"He likes your tits," Craig mentions.

"What?" Kenny is the one that says this. Bebe lifts her brows at him and he holds up his hands in defense.

Craig shrugs, "He said so when we were in Mackey's office."

"Nice," Bebe nods. Kenny has the nerve to look offended by the idea that Bebe's breasts may be of interest to another person, which earns him Bebe scolding, "They're _my_ boobs, you asshole."

Which, evidently, warrants a grope. She elbows him and glares, pushing him a few inches away from her.

"Fuck. You guys are nasty," Craig tells them, "Seriously, cut that shit out when I'm around."

It wasn't ever like this when he was friends with Clyde.

Shit. Craig hadn't meant to think that. But he did. And now he'll spend the rest of the evening cataloging the differences between hanging out with Kenny and Bebe as a opposed to chilling with Token and Clyde. Especially fucking Clyde. It's not something that Craig enjoys thinking about, though he thinks about it often. When Craig gets to comparing the company he kept a couple years ago to the people that he's with now, he just gets depressed.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy getting fucked up with Kenny and Bebe and Ike. He does. Really. Or maybe he doesn't give a shit, and he just needs at least a couple people to pretend that he's worth a damn. Maybe he's using them to feel less alone. He doesn't fucking know.

All that Craig does know is that he didn't feel alone like this when he was with Clyde and Token. Sure, part of it stems from the fact that Kenny and Bebe are in a perpetual state of pseudo-relationship, thus rendering Craig the third wheel (because fuck Ike, he can be the fourth wheel or some shit. Maybe even something that isn't a wheel, but a completely useless bit of cargo being carried in the wagon that is this relationship they all have with each other).

He refuses to acknowledge that the ache underneath his ribcage means that he misses Clyde.

"Hey, cheer up, baby," Bebe says. She leans forward and runs her fingers through his hair in what Craig assumes is meant to be a soothing gesture, quickly ruined when she remarks, "You washed your hair! It's all soft. Come feel it, Kenny."

"_No_," Craig says, pushing her back, "Fuck you guys."

"Craig, stop being a whiny little bitch," Kenny snips, "Would it unjam the stick wedged up your ass if we let you choose the movie?"

Craig gives them a look of unease, "I thought you were already watching something."

"We kinda got distracted," Kenny gets that dumb smiley look on his face that he always does when he's suggesting something sexual. Salacious bastard.

Craig wrinkles his nose and says, "Sick. I do not want to hear about that." He does find himself wondering, however, where the fuck these two get their stamina. Most of the time, he's too lazy to even masturbate, so how the fuck is he supposed to work up enough energy to get somebody else off, too? Craig crosses the room and picks up the nearest DVD. It turns out to be a Mary Kate & Ashley movie, prompting Craig to hold it up at Bebe with a questioning look.

She defends, "Shut up. They're nostalgic."

In the end, Craig settles on The Hangover, because it's mindless, and he doesn't have to pay too much attention to figure out what's going on (most likely because he's watched it too many times before, but he doesn't exactly give a shit). Despite taking world's longest nap back at home, he finds himself drifting off about a quarter way through the movie. He fluctuates between awake and asleep, every so often jolting out of his rest like he's just had a bad dream.

"Hey, you want a ride home?" Bebe asks, when Craig wakes up during the credits. He sits up and rubs at his eyes, regretting it instantly when he mishandles his black eye and makes it sore.

There's a blanket on top of him. That sort of makes him uncomfortable, that one of these idiots thought to tuck it over him. He doesn't like it at all. It feels too intimate, like something that should only be reserved for mothers. But then, his mother wasn't ever especially skilled at the putting-Craig-to-bed routine. He threw a lot of tantrums when he was little, refusing to go to sleep, until his parents got fed up and locked him in his room until his hissy fits wore him out.

In short, Craig has always been a temperamental asshat.

He refuses the offer to be given a ride home. This already feels weird from them, like often any generosity makes Craig feel. Kenny and Bebe and even occasionally Ike treat him like a legitimate friend, when they should know better. They're not friends. He just hangs out with them so he isn't completely alone, and so that he has people just as fucked up as he is to be around. And to get high.

Bebe attempts to hug him at her front door, an embrace that he shrugs out of before taking off down the walk.

Craig doesn't have a sly method of sneaking back into his house, and so he steels himself and strides through the front door like he hasn't done anything wrong. There's instant shouting after him – the loudest of which being, "Where the fuck have you been?" from his father. He ducks past them, though, ignoring whatever shit is spewing from their mouths, and holes himself back up in his bedroom.

Craig slides underneath his covers without changing his clothes, plugs his headphones into his ears, and shuts off the lights.

**o.o.o.o**

It's always peaceful in his house on the days that Craig has been suspended. His sister is at school and his parents are working down in Bailey. He's safe, even if it's just for a few hours. He uses the opportunity to fix himself a slightly-burnt omelet to make up for the significant lack of food he'd faced yesterday. After he's fed himself, he brings the baby carrots that he promised to Zim and Gir, watching them nibble on the treats with a faint fondness thrumming in his gut.

He wonders if it would sound stupid to say that even if he doesn't exactly have anybody else, he still has his guinea pigs. They understand him, sort of – at least in the way that one understands "this is the guy that feeds me, so I'd better show him the love."

Craig considers doing homework or something productive, but in the end what wins out is that he wants to take his bike out. He isn't one of those hipster bikers with cuffed pants and cardigans, no. The very idea makes him cringe as he opens his garage, pulling his helmet over his head. His brand of biking is more performing tricks and doing other stupid shit that could injure him if he makes one wrong calculation. He likes taking his bike through the woods, over the steep, rocky paths choked with weeds because nobody ever uses them. He likes the thrill. It makes him feel better. It makes him feel less dead and cloudy-minded than he does on an average day.

He pulls out into the street, pedaling swiftly toward the area that surrounds Stark's Pond. There are probably a few chunks of crunchy snow that haven't melted yet, but he'll risk it. He doesn't give a damn, really. He's broken his bones so many times that he's lost his official count, and decided to roll with his injuries instead.

He used to race, but when his parents became unwilling to transport him to events or pay for entry fees, he couldn't participate anymore. He'd been about fourteen, and fought tooth and fucking nail over their decision, only to be told that "he was in high school now, and should get a fucking job." Maybe he should, now. A car would be a nice addition to his life, though he have to acquire a fucking license first. _That_ would require getting to a DMV. He thinks the one that's closest is in Leadville, and that's like an hour and a half away. Bebe's lucky for having parents that were willing to cart her around to get everything in order for her to be able to drive. Craig can't help but wonder what it's like.

Racing is a pipe dream, perhaps. At least he can fuck around on his bike out here without much bother. He doesn't think that most folks even know he does it. That's the way he likes it to be. Innocuous and unnoticeable.

Craig darts through the trees. He could dodge obstacles like tree roots and rocks by going around them, but he prefers jumps, sailing as high into the air as he can before landing with a jolt. He doesn't know how long he rolls along the off-beaten paths, but his mind is clear and has been wiped clean. That's what matters. It's what he comes here for.

Until –

"Oh, _fuck_."

His wheel catches on a tree root half-buried in the ground and camouflaged by weeds.

Craig sails over his handlebars and plummets toward the ground. He catches himself with his hands, but the impact fucking _hurts_. He swears loudly as his bike crashes beside him.

It takes a moment for Craig to stand up. He ripped holes in the knees of his jeans, and they're bleeding. His right wrist is burning. It doesn't feel like a break, but he's gonna have to see somebody about it. He hisses in pain when he touches it, and decides to give it a few minutes before trying to diagnose himself again. Craig pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. He'll just take a few minutes to stop shaking and then he'll get back on his bike and go home.

"Fuck," he repeats, this time when he sees his bike. The wheel is bent. He doesn't have the fucking cash to get a new wheel. He's broke and unemployed. "No, no, no, no. Fuck, shit, cock –"

"That _was_ quite the spill," he hears from behind him.

It's Tweek.

Motherfucking Tweek Tweak.

Who else would it be? Craig doesn't know anybody else that has the ability to troll around the woods mid-morning on a Tuesday other than his fellow suspendee.

He still wears his huge, ugly trench coat. It looks like Mrs. Tweak may have tried to get the bloodstains out and mostly failed. Craig almost asks if that bothers Tweek, because last anybody had heard from him, he wouldn't touch a bit of blood with a ten-foot pole. A scarf hangs around his neck, a forest green number that looks to have been knit by hand. And above it all is his blank expression, framed by wild blond hair that seems not to have been combed.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Craig sputters. His breath comes out in hard pants, and his palms sting as much as his knees. He doesn't like being out here like this with this kid. He's bigger and stranger, and he packs a hell of a punch. Craig plucks his banged-up baby from off of the ground and shoves past the kid.

Tweek trails after him and says, "I like walks." He goes silent, but Craig can hear his footsteps as he tramps through the brush behind him, those big boots clunking with each step. Tweek pipes up again when Craig stumbles forward and pushes the handlebars of his bike into his fucked-up wrist, "Hey, you want me to take a look at that?"

"No. Just – go away," Craig says. So much for apologizing for punching him in the face. He has a black eye just like Craig's, the only difference being that it's on the opposite side of his face.

"It looks like a sprain," Tweek continues, ignoring Craig, "I have an Ace bandage with me."

Craig stops and turns his head sharply back, "You just carry around Ace bandages?"

"I carry around lots of stuff," Tweek says. As if his trench coat is agreeing with him, it rattles when he steps forward. It sounds like Tweek's Tic Tacs – the guy must really fucking like those. He pulls the front of his trench out before him, still buttoned, and peers inside, before extracting the rolled bandage.

"See?" he says, lifting his brows.

This is weird. It's almost as weird as Tweek monologuing about Bebe's breasts.

But begrudgingly, Craig accepts, "Okay. Give it here."

"As comical as watching you struggle might be, you can't put it on by yourself, you dumb fucker," Tweek responds.

"And you can? You're fucking shaking."

"I can't help it," he snaps, scowling, and he yanks Craig forward. Craig yelps at the pain and smacks Tweek's arm, but he is once again ignored, as Tweek starts rolling the bandage over Craig's wrist. Once Tweek has secured the clips, he asks, "Better?"

"Yeah," Craig mutters.

"I can walk your bike, if you want," he offers.

"Why the hell would I want that?" snips Craig. He quickens his pace in hopes of getting away. Craig isn't short, but he isn't tall in the way that Tweek seems to be under that fucking coat, with long, sprawling legs – legs that enable Tweek to catch up and match Craig's pace with ease.

"Because you're fucked up," Tweek reasons, "Come on, quit being a dick. I'm being nice."

"You're being fucking annoying," Craig retorts.

They walk side by side, quiet now.

Until Craig hears it.

The fucker is _clicking his tongue ring. _Again.

"Okay!" Craig finally shouts, louder than necessary, "If you quit doing that thing with your tongue ring, you can walk my fucking bike. Happy?"

"Yes," Tweek answers simply. He sticks his tongue out at Craig and takes the handlebars when they're offered to him, "This thing looks pricey. Is it gonna cost a lot to fix your fuck up?"

"Shut up," growls Craig.

"I agreed to stop messing with my tongue ring, not to stop talking," defends Tweek, "You looked pretty cool until you biffed it."

"Shut _up_," emphasizes Craig, "What fucking planet are you from? I just want to be left alone, dude."

"I gathered that when you socked me in the eye, actually," Tweek responds, "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna humor you, _dude._ By the way, I thought it was nice when you pulled my hair. I _love_ having my hair pulled, if you know what I mean." Tweek grins a little like Kenny and sticks his tongue out again, wiggling it around.

"_What_."

"Mm, yeah," is all that Tweek says in return, and a far-off look fits onto his face.

They walk the rest of the way to Craig's house in an awkward silence. But when they reach the garage and Craig punches the code in, Tweek says, "Wait."

"What."

Craig is seriously getting tired of this.

"Do you wanna come to a tea party at my house tomorrow?" Tweek fishes inside his coat again and explains, "I made you an invitation." He pulls out a neatly folded bit of paper and hands it to Craig.

On it is an elaborate pencil drawing. It is easily one of the creepiest things that Craig has ever laid eyes on: A depiction of what appear to aliens (judging by their space helmets) seated around a table, drinking tea from floridly detailed china cups. All of them are missing eyes, and have only empty sockets where they should be. Craig opens it, to find that the details have all been written in bubble letters.

_You're invited to Tweek's tea party_

_Wednesday, October 26__th__ at eleven o'clock AM_

_Be there or you're a doucherocket_

"I thought you drank coffee," Craig says.

Clearly, this is not the answer that Tweek was hoping for. He frowns deeply and explains, "I like tea _and_ coffee. If you like coffee better, I can make that instead! I make really good Turkish espresso. I promise!"

"I believe you. It's just that I, um," Craig tries to think of an excuse to wiggle his way out of this one, and comes up tragically short. He can't say that he has school, obviously. He doesn't have to do anything. If he says that he has to do homework, Craig doubts that Tweek will believe him. He hates feeling like he has to do shit.

"So you'll come?"

"Um," Craig says.

"Are you worried about the refreshments? My mom already said that she'd make us crumpets."

"Crumpets," repeats Craig.

They stop speaking. Tweek looks at Craig expectantly, while Craig shuffles his feet, still groping for a reason that he could use to dodge this bullet.

Tweek lifts a brow, and begins clicking his piercing against his teeth.

"Fuck, okay. I'll be there," Craig agrees.

Tweek seems satisfied with this. He says, "Don't forget. If you ditch me, you're a total doucherocket."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to all of my magnificent reviewers: w0rmsign, lilykinz200, ninemillionhigh, Starrydango, Tayviee, Wendlekins, Neavvs, Jen, prettyoddrydonfan, KirstenTheDestroyer, MariePierre, a nameless anonymous reviewer, TheAwesome15, Hate Me-I Dare You, RaiineDays, some person, Oneirogenic, sephyroth19, Bubbl3wrapguy, and I-love-Awkward-silences.**

**A special thanks to KirstenTheDestroyer, who drew me a metric fuckton of gorgeous art.**

**P.S. Anon that asked about top!Tweek: I've already written him. Tweek tops in my other Creek chapter fic Feeling Strange and Looking Rotten, though if you're going to read it, I caution you that I've improved vastly in the few short months that have passed since it was written, and it will not sound nearly as practiced.**

**Comments/questions/suggestions? Hit me up. **


	3. Plastic Eyeballs

**Chapter Track: Loser – Beck **

Craig fights with himself all morning about attending Tweek's tea party. He suspects that the two of them will be the only attendees, and he isn't certain that he's comfortable being around this strange version of Tweek alone. Then again, Tweek made it sound as though his mother would be around, but Craig doesn't bank on her being any less weird than her offspring. He has to have inherited his off-putting personality from someplace, right?

Craig watches Zim and Gir explore his obstruction-free carpet (he finally piled all of his dirty clothing into a wad in a laundry basket and started cleaning things, mostly out of sheer boredom), and plucks the invitation that Tweek gave him off his mattress, where he placed it carefully beside his pillow. The intricate pencil drawing on the outside suggests that Tweek put real effort into making it, and it makes Craig feel like a bit of an asshole for considering to sleep instead of heading over to the Tweaks'.

The art is creepy. There is no denying that. Tweek seems to have thought out even the tiniest details, like warts on the eyeless aliens' faces, and hairs in those warts. The more that Craig stares at it, the more intentional but small marks that he finds.

In the end, Craig places his guinea pigs back into the their cage, pulls on a semi-fresh set of clothing, and sets off for the Tweak house.

In the past couple of years, he's been made to feel like an outcast. He's too angry, too gross, too violent, _too much _for other people. That's what they tell Craig, at least. He's decided that the last thing that he wants to do is make other people feel that way.

Logically, he knows that he's angrier than other people. Logically, he knows that the solution to his problem does not include the use of his fists. Logically, he should know better.

But when it comes down to it, and instinct kicks it, he feels like he has to defend himself. He knows no other way than to put his attacker in a world of hurt. Craig isn't eloquent. He has come to realize that he's actually impressively stupid. He has no redeeming aspects of his personality for being a dick.

So he likes to be alone.

But for whatever reason, Tweek has opted to set his sights on Craig as a potential friend. If indeed inviting people to tea parties is how Tweek treats potential friends.

Craig doesn't know how he's supposed to treat people that want to be friends with him, mostly because he doesn't know why the fuck you'd want to self-flagellate by befriending his dumb ass.

Craig passes the Tweak house sometimes when he walks or bikes into town. It's an odd little house, painted a faded shade of pinky mauve. During the summer, the rosebushes flanking the porch and the flower gardens lining the driveway outside look full and green, but now the rosebushes are spiny and dead, and the gardens are nothing but greyish brown patches of soil, making the entire place look a little dead.

The front porch looks like a sneak peek into an of episode hoarders. Too much stuff has been crammed into such a small rectangle of concrete – a rusty porch swing, a round outdoor table inlaid with ceramic and missing chairs. Mostly, though, there are misshapen, ugly pieces of art in obscenely bright colors.

Craig lifts his hand to knock, but the door opens before he can. Tweek, sans trench coat, stands in the doorway.

"You're thirty six seconds late," he accuses.

Craig doesn't respond to this, and instead asks, "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Tweek looks down at his ensemble as though he's forgotten what he dressed himself in that morning and says, "I am wearing clothes."

"I mean –" Fuck it, he thinks, "Are those suspenders?"

Tweek says proudly, "Yes. They're my favorites. You know, you're not dressed in tea party clothes, Craig. Wait right here. I can fix that."

Craig shoves his cold hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling uncomfortable being left on his own in the entry way. He never has liked being in a house that he hasn't been in before. The smell puts him off. Not the specific aroma of the Tweak house, but the scent of a new home in general. It's how somebody's family smells all the time, and it feels like an intimate thing to know.

Tweek's house smells musty and sweet.

And there are _things_ everywhere. Cross stitching samplers and paintings cover the walls almost floor to ceiling. There are cabinets of childlike art projects (a few that Craig recalls making in art class in elementary school himself, though his have been long since broken or destroyed) and collectable china figurines. Nothing matches – there's a pink and green floral sofa underneath quilts made up of primary colors and basic shapes. Bins of random shit line up against the walls, stacked one on top of another, though they look to have been strategically placed so that the numerous art projects can be put on display.

"Here you go!"

Craig jumps and turns to where Tweek has returned from his venture upstairs. He holds a top hat in his hands, black with a red velvet ribbon circling around the base. Craig hesitates, and Tweek pushes it closer to him, looking the most enthusiastic that Craig has seen him since his sudden return to South Park. It's the little smile that Tweek has on his face when he thrusts it out into Craig hands that makes Craig accept the hat and place it on his head. That, and he's afraid that if he'd refuse, Tweek's next instinct would be to click his teeth with his piercing.

"Tweek, why don't you show Craig to the table?" Mrs. Tweak appears from kitchen. She's wearing a knee-length polka dress that makes Craig feel like he's looking at somebody out of a 1950's sewing catalogue, if only she wasn't in bare feet and holding a mixing bowl that must have been painted by Tweek, because it's decorated with creepy eyes. She smiles at Craig, and then asks, "Craig honey, could you take off your shoes?"

Craig obeys out of politeness, though if he'd thought that they'd be barefoot, he wouldn't have worn his novelty Red Racer socks, which he always wears when he feels like he might need a small source of comfort. It sounds stupid. He knows that. But sometimes, it's nice to be able to say to himself, _Today sucked, but at least I was wearing my Red Racer socks. _

He hopes that they go unnoticed, but naturally, his silent plea to the universe goes ignored, and Tweek chirrups, "I like your socks. I stopped watching Red Racer when I was like, twelve. But it's cool that you do! You always liked that show a lot." Craig doesn't know what to think about the fact that Tweek remembers his fondness for Red Racer, so he opts not to think about it at all, as he follows Tweek down three carpeted stairs and into the living room.

It looks as though somebody tried to clear the room a little, shoving things off to the side and hastily folding blankets. A bevy of unfinished knitting projects are piled onto the couch against the far wall. Like what Craig has seen of the rest of the house, there are art projects on display. In this room, though, there are more items that look like souvenirs from vacation destinations: figurines, shot glasses, and an entire row of light-up clocks like the one that Craig has in his own basement.

In the center of the room, a card table is piled with a collection of tea accouterments that look to all belong to a different tea set each.

Tweek says, "Go on. Sit down."

Craig does. This place feels strange to him. The whole house is messy and dusty and cramped, but it feels like the people within it all love living there, making the extreme clutter seem irrelevant. Tweek takes the seat across from Craig and says, "I chose Earl Grey. I hope that's okay."

"Okay," is all that Craig can manage, because he feels like he's been sucked into a vortex of oddity. He also isn't well-versed in varieties of tea, as Tweek appears to be. The extent of his knowledge goes only to the boxes of herbal teas that his mom keeps on the top shelf in the cabinet beside their refrigerator. He doesn't drink it much, aside making himself a cup of Sleepytime when he feels sick. Though he's rarely even ill beyond hangovers that he brought upon himself, he takes every precaution under the sun not to be any sicker than he has to be – since his parents don't abide sick days, and he has to take care of his own shit.

Craig's mom isn't so bad, really. She just doesn't understand him in the same way that Ruby doesn't understand him. She always wants to know why he can't just stop getting into fights at school, why he can't just go to class, why he can't get all his assignments in on time like normal kids do. And Craig doesn't know the answers to that. He just _can't. _

Tweek pours Craig tea in the cup and saucer laid before him before serving himself. Craig worries that he'll break the cup, though he wonders if breaking things is how Tweek came to own such a mismatched collection of china in the first place. Craig's cup and saucer belong to a Peter Rabbit set, and the teapot is patterned in lady bugs.

Tweek stares at Craig expectantly.

Cautiously, Craig takes the cup up in both hands and makes to take a sip.

"You forgot to put your napkin in your lap."

Craig places the cup back onto the saucer and pulls the napkin arranged on his plate out, shaking it out of its almost origami-like shape, and draping it across his lap. It's embroidered along the edges with eyes like the ones on Mrs. Tweak's mixing bowl. Craig begins to wonder exactly how many things Tweek knows how to do. Draw, paint, sculpt, embroider…all the fuck Craig is useful for is moping around with his guinea pigs, hitting people in the face, and breaking things (including his own body parts).

If he can fuck up a bike as sturdy as his Corratec, then Craig sure as hell can bust a tea cup that weighs less than Zim or Gir.

Craig purses his lips and takes care to hold the teacup in both hands again, taking a cautious sip.

"You're not supposed to hold your cup like that," Tweek pointedly says.

"Fuck you. I'll hold my teacup however the fuck I want," Craig says irritably. If he holds it in any other way than the way that he already is, he will fucking drop it, and it will inevitably shatter into a million pieces.

Tweek scowls and snips, "This is _my_ tea party, asshole. You're supposed to follow my rules."

"I didn't have to fucking come here," Craig whispers harshly. He sneaks a glance back up at where Mrs. Tweak is in the kitchen and prays that she doesn't hear them. If there's one thing that can successfully make a guy feel guilty about being a dick, it's mothers.

Craig doesn't know why he came here. He doesn't know why he does anything, really. He should have stayed in his room and slept through the afternoon. He should not have jumped down the rabbit hole into this strange house with these strange people, with a fucking seventeen year old guy that speaks openly of how he enjoys his sex and still holds tea parties.

"Yeah, you did," retorts Tweek, "if you didn't come over, you'd be a doucherocket."

Craig clenches his jaw. He tamps down the urge to cuff Tweek in the fucking jaw for being such a goddamn child. Who the fuck does he even think he is? Craig knows he should stay the hell away from this, and he should have acknowledged that this morning when he was fighting himself over whether or not he should attend this fucking crackfest.

Tweek lifts his teacup – an older, floral cup that Craig would be even more afraid to break than the Peter Rabbit cup that has been deemed his – and holds his pinky out as he sips from it. He says, "See. That's how you drink tea at a tea party."

He's clenching his fists in his lap, now. He needs to leave. He needs to get outside before he punches Tweek in his stupid face and gives him a second black eye. Craig tries to unlock the irritation from his jaw. He doesn't understand how Tweek can't see how fucking _pissed_ he is.

He _will _be polite.

He _will not _be an asshole.

He _will_ survive this tea party.

After this is over, he can go home. He can sleep for an eternity in peace, and there will be no noise except for the noise he allows to come through his headphones, and the scuffling and soft sounds of his guinea pigs.

Craig mimics how Tweek's hand holds his cup and brings it up to his mouth to drink.

It slips out of his hand.

"Shit," Craig says tightly. The cup doesn't break, to his relief. It falls onto the carpet and spills over. A stain of tea begins to spread across the carpet.

"What the fuck, Craig?" demands Tweek. He stands in a huff and stalks to the bottom of the steps, announcing, "Mom, Craig spilled his fucking tea!"

"Tweek, don't bring your mom into this," Craig calls. He stands, too, and knocks over his chair in the process. He speaks too loudly and feels himself flush. Fuck. Christ, could he embarrass himself any more? He runs a tense hand over his face.

"That's okay, sweetie," hums Mrs. Tweak, "Accidents happen, remember? We'll just clean it up."

God, what the fuck? How is this woman so reasonable while her son is so…_not_?

"I have to get going," announces Craig. He needs to leave before he flips the fucking table and destroys the mismatched tea set entirely. As tempting as he finds it to kick the entire setup over, he feels as though that would be ill-advised.

Mrs. Tweak emerges from the kitchen as Craig pushes past Tweek to retrieve his shoes. She says, "Oh, honey, don't worry about the tea. It's an easy cleanup."

"I'm sorry," Craig manages, "I have – stuff to do." Stuff like not being here, and not pushing your son onto the floor and repeating their brawl, he thinks, but does not say.

Upon yanking Tweek's top hat off of his head and pushing it into Mrs. Tweak's hands, Craig shoves his feet into his shoes and pries the front door open, swiftly striding past the dead gardens, down the driveway, and to the curb. He feels along his jacket pockets and finds the slightly flattened box of cigarettes that he bought off of Kenny when it was half-empty.

As Craig lights his cigarette with his favorite lighter (on which he has written 'get your own fucking lighter' due to the mooching of Kenny and Bebe, and occasionally Ike), he hears behind him, "Hey, wait!"

"Fuck off," Craig snaps at Tweek, before he inhales off of the end of the cigarette, relieved to have something to calm himself down, or at least something to do with his hands that isn't fucking strangling Tweek Tweak.

"I'm sorry," Tweek says. He's more jittery than he was before, when they'd sat down to tea.

"It's fine," Craig replies shortly.

Tweek shakes his head. He has his trench coat back on, though the buttons aren't in the right holes. He reaches inside and pulls out a package of his own cigarettes. Craig reaches into his pocket for his lighter, feeling as though he's about to get asked for a light, but Tweek pulls out not only one lighter, but four. He holds them all in the palm of one of his long-fingered hands, and at last decides for one decorated in a rainbow, tie-dye pattern.

For some reason, the fact that Tweek has his own lighter eases Craig's frustration with him. Or maybe that's the nicotine settling into his system. He can't say.

Even the cloud of smoke that Tweek breathes out seems anxious as he explains, "I'm supposed to be making friends, but I don't know how and I'm not very good at it. I can leave you alone if you want. I just wanted to say sorry. I get angry sometimes over little shit, you know."

"Fuck, me too," Craig says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The desperation to escape from the Tweak house wanes as the words settle in. Craig finds himself plopping down onto the curb before he recognizes what his own body is doing. He blows a stream of smoke toward the pavement and shakes his head.

"I was about to knock the table over," Craig confesses.

Tweek chuckles at this. Little puffs of smoke come up out of his lungs with each little laugh, and he says, "Well. Good thing you left, asshat. I would have punched you in the fucking face. Again."

"If you ever do, can we agree now to avoid the septum? Getting punched there is like getting kicked in the balls."

"So your piercing is like a nutsack on your face, is what you're saying?" Tweek cocks a brow.

Craig pauses to think over that one, dragging in from his cigarette and exhaling before he answers, "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Then I'm sorry I punched you there," Tweek says gravely.

They smoke the rest of their cigarettes without speaking. Craig massages his jaw with one hand, working to make it less sore how tightly he had it clenched inside Tweek's house. He thinks that maybe he needs to shake Tweek off and tell him that they're not friends – that Craig isn't friends with anybody, and that's just how he functions. But he doesn't.

It's stupid, and maybe petty, but Craig doesn't give a fuck.

He crushes the butt of his cigarette underneath his sneaker. When Craig stands again, he eyes Tweek and asks, "I'll see you later."

"Will you? See me later, I mean," Tweek asks.

Craig gives a concise nod and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans before answering, "Yeah. I will."

Craig has stuck himself into another weird half-friendship, like the thing he has with Kenny, Bebe and Ike. He knows it's not a good idea, but then, Craig seldom has good ideas. And Tweek is, despite being puerile and nerve-wracking at times, kind of cool. He's a freak of nature, too. But being a freak of nature doesn't negate coolness. At least, Craig doesn't think that it does.

Tweek waves goodbye to Craig from his cluttered porch.

When Craig arrives home, he's texted by Kenny with an invitation to some kid's party about ten miles out of South Park. He declines. He's been too sociable in the past days. He needs air, and even the small amount of social interaction that he's had in the past couple of days has exhausted all of his energy.

He's relieved after he's eaten and locked himself in his bedroom again. His jaw relaxes and his headache eases away. He feels less furious and more human in his own company.

Instead of partying, Craig naps in death-like sleep, curled up in his bed. He sleeps through an argument between his parents, and through Ruby banging on his door to tell him to come down for dinner. He doesn't wake until it's almost two in the morning, at which point he sneaks downstairs and makes himself a pot of Kraft macaroni. He eats it directly out of the pan with a spoon and watches Red Racer reruns until four, before crashing again.

He decides that for the next few days, he won't come out of his room until he absolutely has to.

**o.o.o.o**

Other than midnight trips to sneak food upstairs, Craig stays holed up in his bedroom until Monday, when his suspension ends. He did mostly nothing useful except for on Sunday, when he realized that in order to graduate, he has to maintain a reasonable GPA – so he got high and did homework. He doesn't know how much sense his essay actually makes, but it had seemed thought-provoking and insightful at the time he'd written it (a mere four hours ago).

He walks to the bus stop alone, to find that the only others waiting this early are Token and Clyde. He used to enjoy that the three of them were prompt to the stop together, that they had a precious few moments to laugh and dick around before the rest of the assholes in this town showed up.

Now Craig wishes that he'd gotten here later, so he could be surrounded by people and didn't have to feel their stares burning on him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Knowing he's being talked about y the people right beside him unnerves Craig, especially since they used to be so close. They know so much about him – or _knew_, anyway. They know nothing about him now, not that there is anything to know anymore. He doesn't do anything.

When they load onto the bus, Craig steps on last. He meets Clyde's eyes for a moment, but disconnects his gaze when Token catches him and glares.

Maybe it's when Token stepped in that the real disconnect happened. Clyde would forgive Craig if he asked him to. Craig probably wouldn't even have to get down on his knees and beg, because Clyde is a nice fucking person and would forgive him without a big to-do.

Clyde has begun to look better recently than Craig has ever seen him, and he thinks that it's because Craig isn't in the picture anymore. They aren't friends, and it's been better for him since he hasn't had to put up with Craig's bullshit. He looks happier.

Not that Craig has been looking.

The ride is short and silent, and upon arrival at the school, Craig darts off of the bus before another awkward moment can be had between him and the guys that he used to be friends with. Instead, he makes a beeline for where the smokers – including Bebe and Kenny – are congregated, puffing away on pre-school cigarettes. Craig lights one of his own on the way there, plopping down on Bebe's right side.

"Where the fuck were you the whole weekend?" asks Kenny.

"High," answers Craig, which is mostly true.

"You wanna see what I got done this weekend?" Kenny goes on. By 'got done' Kenny does not mean a project or hobby, he means that he got a new piercing. Craig's starting to wonder if he's going to run out of room for places to put metal, but he doesn't want to speak that out loud and have Kenny take his words as a challenge.

Kenny doesn't give Craig time to answer before rolling up his sleeve and revealing what is not a piercing, but in fact a tattoo. It's nothing remarkable, only a skull with a rose through its teeth, but it's well-drawn. Craig suspects that Kevin McCormick is behind it.

"It's a cliché piece of shit," voices Henrietta.

"Lick chode, Henrietta," Kenny slices back, flipping her off. He returns his attention to Craig and asks, "So, what do you think?"

"Looks nice," Craig says simply, and sticks his cigarette into his mouth so that he isn't obligated to say anything further.

"I don't lick chode, asswipe, I lick pussy," Henrietta calls back.

Bebe laughs quietly and remarks, "_Yeah_ she does."

Kenny's brows lift high on his forehead and he murmurs, "Hey," likely because he's offended by the idea that somebody could possibly match his skill in eating a woman out, particularly the goth girl.

The exchange is nothing remarkable. Days like this never are, even if Craig does spot Tweek being dropped off by his mother and slogging across the grass in his huge trench coat. His hair is tied back into a ponytail today, and his face is set back in the blank form that Craig first observed during Monday's English class. It still feels strange to see him back around, after having been missing him in South Park for over a year. Before then, he'd been a fixture. The odd kid, with the odd family, in the odd house. 'Those Tweaks.'

And then he was gone, just like that. He disappeared. It wasn't the whole family. Tweak Bros has still been in business, staffed by the Mr. and Mrs. Themselves – without the help of their son.

If Craig is being honest, he'll say that the absence of Tweek Tweak was only noticed for about a day. It had taken a mere twenty four hours for the student body of Park County High to forget about him completely, even the kids (like Craig himself) that had gone to school with the guy since preschool. He knows that he didn't give a damn about Tweek going missing.

Craig makes it to his classes on time today. He pulls his hat down over his ears as he always does and pretends that he's someplace else, preferably back in the solitude of his bedroom, smoking a bowl and watching his guinea pigs run around. He tries to pay attention, but always, finds himself drifting when the voices of his teachers begin to drone on in the same tone about the same topics. It's his routine, back to normal, uninterrupted by the likes of Tweek Tweak. They don't speak to each other at the beginning of class, just as Craig never speaks to anybody, though he does find himself staring as Tweek draws on the pages of his notes. Craig finds it remarkable that Tweek takes actual notes, until he squints further and realizes that the words on Tweek's notebook are not schoolwork, but poetry.

Craig leans sideways, trying to read the tiny words.

Until he hears clicking.

"Stop that," Craig states.

"Why don't you stop being a prick and reading over my shoulder?" suggests Tweek.

They leave it at that.

At lunchtime, Craig stands awkwardly in front of the mass of eating people, slipping into the line where it will go unnoticed that he cut ahead, gathering his mediocre lunch, and wandering back to Kenny and Bebe in their corner of the cafeteria. The two of them are closer than they tend to be in public, but they aren't touching or kissing or any of the gross bullshit that Craig can't stand seeing. No, they're both engrossed in a sort of booklet.

"What's that?" asks Craig, setting his tray on the table beside them. He doesn't look at them as he speaks, but instead dives in on eating his lukewarm pizza and wishing that he was anywhere but here.

"It's a zine," answers Bebe, and she slides it across the table to Craig, "It's actually like, really interesting. Somebody dropped them all over the hallways last period. The author didn't sign it or anything. It just has a PO box on the back to send questions to."

At first sight of the cover illustration, Craig almost opens his mouth and exclaims the first thought that strikes him: _Tweek_. He manages to keep quiet, but only because he thinks that Tweek doesn't want folks to know he's tossing shit around the hallways if he didn't stick his name on it. Nobody else has seen Tweek's art, then. Only Craig knows that this style is his. The cover is intricate and detailed, just like the tea party invitation that Tweek gave to Craig last week, and just like many of the paintings decking the walls of the Tweak house.

The front illustration is a brain, the sections labeled in places with things like _desire_ or _hunger_, and above that is the title in huge, melting bubble letters: _Are You Mental? _Craig flips the pages, feigning vague interest while he is actually enraptured. Information in cramped handwriting scrawls along the pages. At the top of each new pair of pages, there is a title in the same melting letters as the outside cover. _Health, Art, Sex_. Craig finds himself tempted to linger on the _Sex_ section, if only to find out what Tweek thinks he knows about it.

But then, Craig begins to believe that Tweek knows quite a bit fucking more about sex than Craig does. Craig isn't a virgin, but he's lazy, and attaining sex takes too much effort for him.

"You can keep it," Bebe says, "I picked up like four."

The urge to find Tweek and demand to know more about whatever the fuck he's doing creeps up on Craig.

"Hey, um, can I sit with you guys?"

Speak of the devil.

Tweek stands in front of their table. One hand is in an outside pocket of his trench coat, and the other holds a metal lunchbox…with fairies on it. He's clicking his piercing against his teeth, but Craig doesn't think that he's doing it to get him to say yes to his request, he thinks that Tweek may be doing it because he's nervous.

Kenny and Bebe both look to Craig for confirmation, as they're telling him that he and Tweek are the ones that beat the shit out of each other, and that this decision is between them. They seem surprised when Craig pats the seat beside his and says, "Yeah, you're fine, man."

"I don't like it in here," Tweek says quietly, enough so that Craig is the only one to hear his words.

"In the cafeteria?" Craig questions.

"No, in the school," clarifies Tweek, "Everybody's staring at me. Do I look funny, Craig?"

Craig doesn't know how he managed to forget that today is the first real day that Tweek has been back in school, but Tweek's words remind him.

Before Craig can answer, Bebe leans forward. She smiles widely at Tweek and says, "So. Craig tells me that you like my tits."

"Bebe –" protests Craig, because he does not want to be brought into it.

Tweek glances at Craig as if to say _traitor, _but answers, "I do!" with more enthusiasm than Craig expected.

"Awesome," Bebe nods, "That means we have something in common. I like you."

In that moment, Craig wishes that Kenny and Bebe could just go the hell away so that he can ask Tweek about the zine. He'd like a chance to flip through it privately, too. Craig doesn't know why, but he doesn't feel comfortable reading this _thing_ that Tweek has written while in the company of others. Perhaps it's because of their fight, or the tea party – or maybe because it's because Craig accidentally masturbated to thoughts of Tweek. In any case, he doesn't want to be around these people when he reads it, especially now that Tweek is beside him and would see it.

So Craig stands up without speaking, tucking the zine into the pocket of his hoodie before Tweek can see that he has it. He hears Kenny call out and ask where he's going, but doesn't bother responding.

Craig retreats to the downstairs boys' bathroom.

Clyde is at the sink.

They both freeze up when Clyde spots Craig in the bathroom mirror. Craig swallows the lump in his throat. He's the first to tear away, before Clyde can say something. Even a simple 'hi' would crush Craig's resolve to stay away from Clyde. They were best friends, but they're not anymore. He doesn't know how many times it's going to take for those words to settle in. Some days, it feels like he'll never be able to accept his fate.

Craig locks himself in a graffiti-ridden bathroom stall. This unfortunately happens to be the stall that has "Craig Tucker Queer Fucker" scrawled out in sharpie across the door. Craig sighs and rolls his eyes. The rumors haven't dispersed, even though the event that put his sexuality into question happened months ago during the summer. It happened at a party that nobody was supposed to know about. If only it hadn't been for the unfortunate pictures, Craig thinks that he and Kenny would have been spared a world of grief.

Craig has messed around with Kenny exactly three times. The first time he and Kenny don't discuss – because Kenny was actually _nice_ and didn't give Craig a hard time, because not only was it Craig's first time ever doing anything with a guy, but Craig first time doing sex things at all. It was just a hand job, and they'd smoked a bowl beforehand, but it's been filed into the appropriate place in Craig's brain as "Shit Not to Bring Up." The second time, they were at a party, and they used their mouths instead of hands, though they had locked themselves in somebody's little sister's bedroom and hadn't been disturbed.

The third time was photographed.

To be fair, he and Kenny had been really, _really_ fucked up. Craig and his dad had clashed badly that afternoon, and Craig had shown up on Kenny's doorstep with his overnight bag and a bloody nose. They'd gotten so high and so fucking drunk at that party. Craig doesn't even know what they took, and he doesn't actually recall the act itself. He wouldn't have known that it had happened, if it were not for the crappy cellphone picture still saved in his phone. He doesn't know why he's kept it.

It's not like Craig let Kenny fuck him in the ass, or anything. He just went down on Kenny. He'd done it once before.

To be fair, it is not the best idea to go down on another dude on a couch in the middle of a room full of people.

Craig feels along the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his favorite silver sharpie. He crosses out "Craig Tucker Queer Fucker" and reminds himself to hunt down Cartman and kick him in the balls. Cartman is the only one that seems to give a damn about the incident. And that's only because Cartman is the biggest fucking closet case of the century.

Craig slips the sharpie back into his pocket and squares his shoulders, forcing himself to brush off the unhappy feeling that settles around him shoulders.

"Hey, Craig?"

No. Not now.

"Clyde, shut up."

"…Okay."

A moment later, he hears the bathroom door swing close.

Craig removes the now-crumpled zine from his hoodie pocket. He flips through it, looking at the pictures, at first. The sex section, naturally is his first instinct, and thus Craig figures that to be the most fitting section to read at first.

He feels a pang of childish embarrassment at the illustrations. Now, he stares at them, riveting by the depictions of pretzel-like positions that Craig isn't certain are possible. He doesn't read the descriptions, but catches too many words that make him flushed and bothered.

…Has Tweek actually _done_ these? If he hasn't where the hell has he gotten the idea for these pictures? Porn? What? Craig tips the zine to the side to try and work out one of the more graphic drawings.

He decides to flip to a new section when he feels himself becoming hard and blushing. Fucking blushing, of all the things.

"_Fucking Stress and Anger: I am the actual worst at controlling my emotions, but over the last couple of years, I've improved dramatically. One thing that's helped is meditation – particularly labyrinth or walking meditation."_

Craig scans the words. Is that what Tweek had been doing in the woods when Craig broke his bike and sprained his wrist? He had looked so far-off and fey.

Reading these words makes Craig feel like he is getting a glimpse into Tweek's odd mind. His written words make so much more sense than the words that he speaks and the art that he makes. Craig finds himself confused, wanting to know more but not wanting to ask. He's too involved already, and Craig is the last person that should be involving himself in others. He wrecks everything – so well that he wishes he could get paid for fucking shit up.

After splashing water on his face in an attempt to cool himself down, Craig exits the bathroom, eyes trained on the floor.

He slams directly into the chest of one Tweek Tweak.

"You're a little pink, Craig," he observes, "Needed a quick jerk or something?" Tweek's voice is too loud, and it causes Butters to glance up from his book and stare at the pair of them over his wire-rimmed reading glasses.

"Tweek, shut up," Craig whispers.

"Chill. There's nothing wrong with whacking off," Tweek says, a little louder than before. Butters' brows go higher up on his forehead.

Craig grinds his teeth and asks quietly, "…Can you tell me more about what you do when you're angry."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my awesome reviewers: lilykinz200, Anonymous Reviewer, prettyoddrydonfan, w0rmsign, MariePierre, mallorymichael, cupcakeattack, ValsWinter, Bubbl3wrapguy, RaiineDays, theyellowsky, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, Porn Mercenary, and NSRforevermore.**

**A special thank you to **NSRforevermore for drawing art of Tweek's tea party invite!****

**Questions/Comments/Suggestions? Hit me up. **


	4. Neurotic to the Bone

**Chapter Track: Basketcase – Green Day**

Bebe doesn't even care is she attends senior prom, but she's still sketching out her sixteenth prom dress since the school year began. It's not that she wants to go. It really isn't. It's just that she enjoys drawing out designs for gowns, almost as much as she enjoys making them. She feels silly when she does this, sitting back in her bed in nothing but sweatpants and a bra, sketchbook in lap. Maybe it's because she's doing something that doesn't sound interesting to others when she describes it.

'Others' being Craig and Kenny, really. She doesn't get how they can be so fucking _idle_ sometimes, doing nothing but partying. Don't get her wrong – Bebe loves partying, but she also likes these quiet nights in which she doesn't have to worry about a hangover, or taking care of other people, or any of the stresses that she pretends don't get under her skin.

All she has to think about is herself. She loves putting the world on pause for those few quiet moments. She's already taken a bubble bath and made herself two mugs of herbal tea, but this is still her favorite part of alone time.

Bebe bites down on the end of her sparkly mechanical pencil in thought before she adds a new sweeping line to the curve of the skirt, making it fuller. Beside her, her phone chirps with a text notification.

_From: Kenny McCordick: can karen n me come over_

_To: Kenny McCordick: Sure what happened honey?_

Typically Kenny tells her beforehand if he's coming over, especially if he brings his younger sister along. The times that he hasn't scheduled ahead mean that he's gotten into a scuffle with his parents, or that his brother has shown up high off of his ass again.

Their arrangement started when they were fifteen: Kenny could stay the night if he could make her come.

The first time, Kenny had shown up on her doorstep upon overhearing that her parents wouldn't be home that weekend and that they would be staying in Vail on a weekend ski trip. Bebe only asked that first time that Kenny appeared why he couldn't go over to Stan or to Kyle's. He had said, without elaborating, that they would not understand. She sympathized. Sometimes Stan and Kyle became so wrapped up in themselves that they forgot about other people.

And so she had let him into her home. At the time, most people would still have considered her to be a virgin (though Bebe gave exactly zero shits about what other people thought about the state of her hymen). She'd only ever let her previous boyfriends finger her, though she'd tried (unsuccessfully) to get herself off a couple times before.

Kenny made her nervous, though she'd never let him in on that – he would tease her for it. According to rumors, he'd been having sex since they turned thirteen, and knew way more than any kids their age should about pleasure. They had both known the rumors about him. Kenny didn't seem to care about the gossip, though. Maybe he even got off on it. Some said that he encouraged it along.

Upon his offer, she'd whispered conspiratorially, "I don't wanna…do it," as though her parents would return from their ski trip two days early and catch her discussing messing around with the McCormick boy, "Just your fingers." She'd fidgeted nervously, feeling inexperienced and embarrassed about being so.

He took his ratty old sneakers off where Bebe indicated that he should, and scratched the back of his neck before asking, "What about my mouth?"

Bebe had heard of guys using their tongues before, of course she had. She wasn't stupid. It's just that none of her previous boyfriends had been willing to do so, even when she asked if they would. In retrospect, perhaps she shouldn't have been as surprised as she was that Kenny had offered. Maybe if she'd taken the suggestion in stride, Kenny wouldn't make fun of her to this day for her eager response.

"Really? You would do that?"

He'd grinned knowingly and replied, "Fuck yeah, I will."

She'd never had an orgasm before. And after what he gave her that first night, Bebe would have to be off her fucking rocker not to want him to come back for a repeat. So, when he showed up on her stoop the next weekend, all boyish good looks and pierced lips, she let him do it again. And again. And again. Bebe liked that he gave without ever asking for reciprocation. She liked that after he made her come, they'd fall asleep in her bed, wake up and have breakfast together, and that he'd leave like nothing had happened, like they'd been doing nothing but saying their prayers.

In the beginning, they didn't kiss when he made her come. They never kissed. It wasn't until a few months into her semi-tryst with Kenny, on a day after Bebe had gotten into arguments with both Wendy and with her parents within a few hours, that she kissed him for the first time. Kenny had given Bebe one of those epic, screaming, releasing-all-the-stress orgasms a few seconds before, transforming her into a sweat-slicked, panting mess. When he crawled up to lay his head on the pillow next to hers, she yanked him into a kiss. He'd tasted like _her_, and that made her even hornier than she'd been when he showed up at her door.

That also marked the first time that Bebe noticed that she made Kenny hard.

"Do you always get like this?" she'd asked. By then, she'd become ten times more confident between the sheets, even though she hadn't done any of the work at the point. So, she rubbed up against him, hooking her leg over his and pressing into the rough denim that clothed his erection.

Kenny had made a noise in his throat, a keening whine, that he tried to choke back for her sake and answered, "Yeeeah," the syllable drawn out on a breathy moan. When Bebe discovered that she could get him to make noises like that, she knew that she wanted him inside of her.

Kenny had been sweet that very first time. Even though he had gotten her naked on a plethora of occasions, she'd never seen _him_ naked – and if she's being honest with herself, she'd say that she had been damn intimidated by the size of his dick. She tried not to convey that (and remains happy to this day that she kept quiet, because Kenny's ego does not need any more stroking than it already gets), but she supposes that he still sensed her nervousness.

Apparently, she was a natural when it came to sex. Natural enough that Kenny had been more than happy to hear that she wanted to do it again when he came over the next time.

Her phone chirrups a second time, pulling her out of her thoughts. She can already feel herself getting hotter as she thinks about him coming over. So much for a quiet night by herself.

_From: Kenny McCordick: mom n dad fightin_

_From: Kenny McCordick: were walkin over now_

The first time that Kenny had appeared at the Stevens' with his little sister in tow had been – well, fucking scary. It had been snowing outside, the flakes so thick and heavy that she could barely see a few feet beyond her bedroom window. When he rang the doorbell, her mother had answered the door. Bebe padded down the stairs out of curiosity, only to see Kenny and Karen shivering without coats (Karen had Kenny's old hoodie, but Kenny wore nothing but a t-shirt and jeans). Kenny sported a black eye and one of his teeth was chipped. His lip was bleeding. He looked like hell, and he was holding Karen's hand like he never meant to ever let her go.

Mrs. Stevens herded Kenny and Karen into the kitchen where she made them each a cup of cocoa, demanding that Bebe get them blankets and towels to dry off their snow-soaked hair.

Just like that, Kenny and Karen were welcome at the Stevens' any time that they needed someplace to stay. To this day, Bebe is glad that her mother understands, that she's nice to Kenny and his family when other people aren't.

Kenny and Bebe didn't sleep together that night, for several reasons. The first was that Karen was there. The second was Bebe's parents. The third was that Kenny actually told Bebe _no _when she tried to initiate it. He was, as he said to her, upset and overstimulated, and all he wanted was a fucking hug. That's maybe what scared her more than anything. Whatever had happened before he came over had riled him up so much that he needed to wind down, and that sex couldn't help him. When fucking didn't help, that meant shit was bad.

When they'd woken up in the early hours of the morning, they'd had sex anyway. Bebe was relieved that it happened. She'd barely been able to sleep, even after Kenny slipped out of where Mrs. Stevens set him and Karen up for the night in the living room and snuck into her bed. She'd spent the entire night pressed up against his back and worried sick.

The doorbell rings, breaking through her thoughts. Bebe slides off of her bed, placing the sketchbook neatly beside her homework on her desk. She shoves her feet into her fluffy purple slippers and pounds down the stairs, trying not to look too eager when she opens the front door.

Exhaustion surrounds Kenny and Karen. Both siblings make an effort to plaster tight smiles to their faces, but there are shadows underneath their eyes, and they look cold.

"Hey babies," Bebe greets, taking each of them in with an arm. Karen, being less touchy-feely than her brother, is the first to pull away. Kenny lingers, letting his head flop onto her shoulder. Bebe hears him give a tiny sigh of relief.

"My dad's out getting drinks with some friends, and my mom's at her scrapbooking club," explains Bebe, feeling the need to establish the reason for her quiet, empty house.

"Can I watch some movies downstairs?" asks Karen, giving Bebe and Kenny a shrewd look. His head rests still on her shoulder, edging suspiciously close to her cleavage. Bebe can't think of a time when Karen didn't know that she and Kenny have an arrangement of sorts. Fortunately, Karen and Bebe get along. If they didn't, she thinks that Kenny might not like Bebe half as much as he does.

Bebe runs a hand through Kenny's long hair and says, "You want me to make you some popcorn or something?"

"I know how to use a microwave," Karen responds pointedly.

Kenny does not raise his head, but he does give Karen the middle finger and shoots off a half-hearted, "Be polite."

Karen rolls her eyes, and says, "Okay, whatever. Use a condom," before she disappears in the direction of Bebe's kitchen.

Bebe nudges Kenny, who has taken the absence of his sister as a cue that it is okay to move his face off of Bebe's shoulder and into her boobs. She asks, "You wanna go upstairs?"

"God, yes," he answers.

Kenny grips Bebe when they're outside her bedroom door and kisses her, hard. It's the way that he kisses when he's overwhelmed. She melts into it, pulling him against her and letting herself relish the taste of cinnamon gum and cigarettes that lingers on his tongue. His lip rings are cool against her skin.

They laugh when he kisses up further and one of his rings hooks onto her Monroe stud, and pull into her room. Kenny kicks the door closed behind them.

They waste no time in ridding each other of their clothes. Kenny seems more keen to do the bulk of the work, like he always does when he's stressed out. Sex is something that he knows, something that he can control, and she thinks that making somebody feel amazing is Kenny's way of calming himself down. He kisses her everywhere and gets lost inside her, and when they're done, Kenny and Bebe are more energized than when he arrived.

That's how it is for them. They're never satisfied with just one round. They always need more of each other.

It's because of that need that Bebe doesn't want to think about what will happen after they graduate. Despite what others tend to think her appearance means, she maintains grades high enough to get her accepted into a decent college, and she thinks she'd like to go. In contrast, Kenny doesn't know what he wants. When she asks, he doesn't want to talk about it. He likes being himself and living life to its fullest, and he doesn't need an assigned purpose.

But she doesn't like the idea of being away from him for too long.

Bebe decides not linger on the matter, and instead smiles brightly and offers to repaint Kenny's turquoise nails that she manicured last week.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig wishes that it was the weekend. Not that he's averse to fucking himself up on a weekday. He's done it before, and he'll inevitably do it again. It's just that there aren't many places available around South Park for a bunch of underage brats to drink themselves into a stupor on a Tuesday evening.

He doesn't want to be at home right now. It's the last place that Craig wants to be. The instant that his dad returned from work, he and Craig's mom fought again, like a spark to gasoline. The electricity is cutting it close again ("Stop watching so much television, Craig."), they'll have to cut down on grocery expenses for the next couple of weeks ("Quit fucking grazing, Craig."), and his dad's in trouble with the hardware place he works at because of missing hours the week before ("I swear to God, if you get into one more fight, Craig…").

After the third accusation, Craig fished around under the couch cushions in the basement to scrape together enough change to walk and get himself a coffee at Tweak Bros. As soon as he's out of range of his house, he sticks a cigarette between his lips and cups his hands around it to light against the late autumn breeze. His parents know that he smokes (though not that he's been smoking with increased frequency), and they don't approve. Craig made the mistake of smoking in his bedroom only once – that single time ended with his cigarettes being flushed one by one down the toilet by his mother.

When Craig reaches Tweak Bros, he finishes his cigarette outside. Across the street, there's new graffiti on the side of Tom's Rhinoplasty, probably Kenny's doing. He's not artistic, but he has an inexplicable love of vandalism.

Craig takes a few steps forward, crushing the butt of his cigarette underneath his threadbare sneaker. He crosses the street to look closer at the spray-painted section of the wall, where it's been painted over by the county and graffitied again by shitheads with small town syndrome, like them.

It's not Kenny's work. Not at all. This is legitimate street art.

And it's Tweek's.

It isn't a huge piece, only about the size of Craig's torso. It's of a ghost, a melting ghost, with missing eyes – much like the style of the tea party invitation that Craig hasn't moved from its spot beside his pillow. Beside it is a tag. Craig can't read it, exactly. It's too dark and he's not the most talented at interpreting tagged letters anyway. It has an 'S' on the front, though. The paint smells fresh.

Craig shakes his head, and strides across the street again. Before he walks in the coffee shp, he calls Bebe's cell for what feels like the fiftieth time (and in reality is only the second), to be met with her voicemail again.

"_Hey, this is Bebe – and this is Ken – Kenny, fuck off – please leave a message after the beep – Kenny, cut that –"_

Craig snaps his phone shut, reflecting again on his permanent status as 'third wheel.'

Tweak Bros is almost completely abandoned inside. There is no one at the counter, and it looks as though the joint has already been cleaned up for the night. The single person sitting inside one of the booths has a familiar crown of tangled blond hair. Craig approaches him. Tweek has headphones fitted over his ears while he bobs his head in time with the beat of the music. He's drawing with a box of sixty four Crayola crayons, most of them scattered out in front of him.

When Tweek notices Craig, he lets out a surprised shout and exclaims, "Jesus Christ! What the fuck, man?" He pulls his headphones down to rest around his neck, glancing around like he hasn't noticed that he's the only one sitting there.

Craig just stands, shuffling his feet. He doesn't speak, and isn't sure that he should.

Tweek pauses before he asks, "Are you here for coffee?"

"Yeah," mumbles Craig, though he supposes that Tweek's company is an alright substitute.

"I'm not supposed to touch the machines anymore," explains Tweek, but he stands anyway, walking behind the counter, "but my parents are fucking in the back, so you're stuck with me. What do you want?"

"Your parents are _what_?" sputters Craig.

"Fucking," repeats Tweek, "they have a very healthy sex life. It's why they're so insufferably fucking cheerful all the time."

The sexual activity of the Tweaks is not a topic that Craig finds at all appealing, and so he changes the subject. "Why aren't you at home?" asks Craig, "You know, since you're not working?"

Tweek purses his lips, clicking his piercing against his teeth a few times, like he can't decide if he wants to let Craig in on this information. After a moment of silence and Tweek fiddling with a loose string on the cuff of his trench coat, he answers, "I'm not allowed to be home by myself."

"Why the fuck not? You're allowed to take walks in the woods alone," Craig says. It seems strange to him that somebody like Mrs. Tweak would forbid her son from being on his own in their own home, which means there must be precedent for Tweek being barred from being by himself. What the fuck would you have to do to get in that much trouble with your parents, though? Especially parents like the Tweaks, who bake and make art and apparently fuck each other in the back room of their coffee shop when it's still during working hours? "Did you light the house on fire or something?"

"I'm not supposed to go anywhere alone," mutters Tweek, "doesn't mean I actually give a shit, or listen. What drink do you want?"

Craig tugs out the change that he managed to pull together on the counter: a crumpled one dollar bill, a few quarters, but mostly dimes and pennies.

Tweek goes on, frowning now, "You're my friend. I'll make it for free."

"I'm your friend," echoes Craig.

Tweek looks confused and says, "We had a tea party and you asked me for advice. That's what friends do, isn't?"

Craig gives a soft shake of his head, pulling down on the strings of his hat. He says, "Eh – yeah. I just want a black coffee."

"Good choice," agrees Tweek. He assembles the drink, snaps a lid on the cup, and hands it to Craig. Before Craig can even turn to exit the shop, however, Tweek asks, "Do you want to color with me?"

Craig slides a glance over his shoulder at Tweek's booth, at the mess of crayons and printer paper and colorful drawings of remarkably creepy shit. No, it isn't his first choice in where he'd like to be. If Craig could choose the ideal activity for this moment, he would be with Kenny and Bebe and Ike and be so stoned that he wouldn't know where the fuck he was. Or even better, he'd be shooting the shit with Clyde in his basement on the Donovans' meatloaf night.

Fuck. He's got to stop thinking of Clyde.

"Okay. I guess," he says.

Tweek doesn't react. Instead, he makes himself his own drink and sits at his table, before patting the space across from him in invitation. Craig slides into the booth, careful not to spill his coffee on the spread of drawings that have been laid out across the surface. Tweek presents him with a blank paper.

Craig chooses a blue crayon. Blue seems innocuous. He ends up doodling a bicycle, like he always does. It makes him feel depressed about the loss of beloved Corratec. All he needs is a new wheel, but he can't fucking afford a new wheel. He searched the couch cushions for coffee money, for shit's sake. He's a broke, bike-less, miserable sack of shit.

"I guess you like bikes," remarks Tweek.

"Yeah," says Craig, "But I busted my bike and my broke ass can't afford to get it fixed."

"Maybe you could work here," says Tweek, "My dad says they're thinking of hiring somebody, anyway. I could cry until they hire you. They'd do it."

"You would…" Craig clears his throat and asks uncertainly, "You would do that?" He doesn't want a job, not really. Ideally, he'd like to sit in his bed forever and never have to wake up, but if he did wake, he could remain in bed smoking a bowl and not giving a fuck. Inconveniently, smoking a bowl and not giving a fuck interferes with attaining a new wheel for his bike.

"You probably should be less of a hermit, anyway," Tweek says.

"What."

"You're by yourself all the time. You should make more friends."

"_What_," repeats Craig.

"It's just an observation," remarks Tweek, as if he's telling Craig that the sky is blue. And fuck, Craig knows that Tweek is right. Craig does hole himself up alone, and maybe it is too often. It's easier that way, and Craig likes it better than trying to dick around with friendship.

"Why don't you make more fucking friends, you shithead?" Craig irritably asks, reaching for a red crayon to color in the tires on his bike picture.

Tweek throws Tickle Me Pink at Craig's forehead and snips back, "Because I'm fucked up."

"_I'm_ fucked up," mutters Craig.

"Not like I am," and Tweek says this with such conviction that Craig doesn't put up a fight.

He watches Tweek draw for a few quiet minutes, taking sips of coffee being strokes of different colored crayons. The guy seems to have a thing for eyes, or the lack thereof. He's drawing a tree, now, but instead of leaves, what grows on it are eyes. Craig thinks of the bigger painting outside, graffitied onto the side of the building. The ghost had no eyes. It almost had no substance – it was a ghost.

"Why did you do it," Craig asks, still in thought.

Tweek glances up sharply as though Craig has caught him with his hand in the cookie jar and says, "Do what?"

"The ghost outside," Craig makes a vague hand gesture toward the door of Tweak Bros.

Tweek's throat works in a swallow and he responds, "That wasn't me," but his hands are shaking when he takes up his yellow crayon and starts filling in the eyes.

"Okay, sure. And the zine wasn't you either, then," Craig states.

Tweek says, "Why does it matter?"

"You might get arrested, for one," Craig points out, "Or they'll just paint over it."

Tweek frowns, "I don't want them to paint over it."

"So it was your art," Craig says.

"You're being creepy," Tweek tells him, but he doesn't look up from coloring the eyes on in his paper. He switches out the yellow for red, but when his hands shake enough that the crayon moves out of the lines, he makes a frustrated noise in his throat and throws the crayon onto the table. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging a little, until he remembers that Craig is there. Tweek's hand floats down back to his side after that. He's shaking.

"Says the guy who told me, and I quote, 'I'd totally stick my dick in you,'" Craig says.

"Well, I would."

Craig rolls his eyes. He wishes that he could have a cigarette indoors, because he doesn't want to leave. He tells himself that his reluctance is due to the fact that he's too lazy to move, and not because he's enjoying sitting around with somebody weirder and more fucked in the head than he is. Maybe that's cruel. Maybe he shouldn't like hanging out with Tweek because he's slightly worse off than Craig is in the brain. But he can't help that part of him that thinks, _thank God I'm not the only one. _

Craig thinks that may have been why he started hanging around Kenny and Bebe and Ike. Outwardly, they seemed like they were wrecked and total wastes of space. The closer he gets, the more it looks to Craig like they all actually know what they're doing – they just party because it's fun, but the rest of the time, they're confident in where the fucking they're going and the action that they take.

Craig has no idea what he's doing, ever.

"Why are you such a dick?" Tweek asks. He's moved onto a new, fresh sheet of paper.

"I don't know," Craig answers sourly. He doesn't, really. At best, he has a few guesses. A lot of them have to do with the misfortune of being born into his particular scummy shithole of a family, or maybe it's because he has fucked up teeth. Too many tiny things prickle in the back of his brain, making him angry. It's like a buzz. A low hum of suckishness. The white noise of assholery.

"You know what helped me a lot," Tweek mentions, like he believes that Craig is interested. Craig is, tragically, interested. He continues as he colors. He's using the blue crayon that Craig used to draw the outline of a bicycle on his page, "Sex. Sex helped a lot."

"What."

"I used to have it all the time, and then I came back to this idle hellhole. Now nobody wants to fuck me, because I'm batshit insane. Or just weird. I forgot that other people have rules. But you've got a pretty face, and you're sort of normal. I bet you could get people to fuck you, if you wanted."

Craig tends to disagree.

"Where the fuck did you go?" Craig asks. It's not the first time he's wondered where the fuck one disappears like that.

"None of your beeswax," Tweek simplifies. He pauses his coloring and looks up as though a thought has just struck him, and says, "Jesus, man, I could go for a joint right now."

Craig has just whittled down the last of his weed supply thanks to his weekend alone with the pipe, but he still says, "I know where we can get some." If Bebe will answer her damn phone. She always answers unless she's fucking Kenny. Maybe Tweek is right. Maybe Craig needs to get laid. Kenny and Bebe have sex all the time and they're the happiest people on the planet.

Craig doesn't actually understand how the hell Kenny is as happy-go-lucky as he is. When Craig decided to start chilling with Kenny, he initially believed that he'd be hanging out with somebody whose world is even more shitty and broken than Craig's. It is – Kenny's world, that is – shitty and broken. But Kenny isn't. Craig isn't sure that Kenny knows how to be serious, and if he does, it isn't around Craig. He's energetic and he likes to laugh, and he doesn't let shit get under his skin in the way that Craig does.

Craig may not admit out loud that there is such a thing as getting under his skin, but that doesn't mean that it's impossible.

The door to the back room bangs open, causing both Tweek and Craig to swing their heads to look. Mrs. Tweak is the first to exit. The buttons at the top of her dress are undone, and her hair that was so perfectly coiffed when Craig saw her last is rumpled and haywire. She looks surprised to see that there's anybody in the shop other than her son.

"Sweetie, you're not supposed to touch the machines," she scolds carefully, eyeing the pair of coffee cups set out on the table.

"Some of us were too busy getting boned to do their jobs," Tweek responds, "So I had to."

Craig cannot even fucking _imagine_ saying shit like that to his parents. As few fucks as he gives about pissing his folks off, he does have a sense of self preservation.

"Tweek _Tweak_!"

"What?" Tweek says, as though he doesn't understand what he's done.

"Apologize this instant!"

"Sorry," he says, and he does not sound at all like he means it.

Mrs. Tweek sighs and rolls her eyes. She pats down the back of her hair like she knows it's a mess and says as her husband emerges from the back room, tucking his shirt into his pants, "We can go home now if you'd like, pumpkin."

Tweek shakes his head, "Craig said he wants me to hang out," and he gives Craig a conspiratorial look, as if to ask, 'we're still on for the weed, right?' Craig gives a nod, which earns him a toothy smile in Tweek.

Mrs. Tweak offers to give them a ride, but Tweek absolutely insists upon walking. Craig would have been happy with the ride, but when he tries to express his opinion, Tweek kicks him underneath the table (a gesture that Craig returns with double the vigor) and assures both his parents multiple times that he will be safe with Craig. Craig isn't certain how true that is, but he'd rather avoid being kicked a second time.

The reason for Tweek's insistence turns out to be that he wants to smoke a cigarette.

"So, where is this weed?" he asks Craig on a fragrant exhale.

"At Bebe's," Craig says. Assuming Bebe still has some with her. Which she always seems to. Kenny tends to give Bebe weed on holidays as her present. Even Valentine's Day, though Kenny pretended not to know what Craig was talking about when he made fun of his dumb ass. He'd brought Bebe what looked like a heart-shaped box of chocolates, but when she'd opened it, Kenny had tucked weed into each square chamber where a chocolate should have been. It was the sort of moment between those two that Craig wishes he hadn't been present for. Those moments made him uncomfortable.

The walk to Bebe's house isn't far. It's in the nicer part of the town, next door to Kyle Broflovski's place. When Craig knocks, however, it is not Bebe that answers the door.

It's Kenny's younger sister.

"What the fuck do you want?" she asks, stepping back, as if to size them up. Craig has no idea why the fuck she's even over at Bebe's place. It seems a little déclassé to bring one's sister to the house of the girl that you're porking, but then, Craig and Ruby aren't nearly as close as Kenny and Karen are. Who the hell even knows what families that like each other do?

"Karen, don't be a dick," Craig hears.

A moment later, Kenny appears, half-dressed, as usual in his ripped up, sleeveless hoodie and a pair of boxers. He reeks of sex, and discovered upon a second discerning sniff, nail polish. Kenny waves them inside, putting turquoise nails on display. Craig can't imagine letting Bebe doing that to him, but Kenny seems to enjoy it, and Tweek looks interested.

Bebe's room reeks of sex, which Craig tries to ignore, until Tweek pipes up with, "Shit, you guys have a good time?"

Bebe looks surprised when she emerges from her bathroom in nothing but an oversized terrycloth bathrobe. Her perfectly plucked brows arch high into her curls. She remarks dryly, "I see I didn't get invited to my own party, evidently." Sarcasm aside, she pulls both Craig and Tweek down into a tight hug by the backs of their necks.

"Tweek wants to get high," explains Craig, when she's released them, "I'm out of my shit at home."

"You smoked that _all_ by yourself?" Kenny demands, "In one weekend?"

Craig doesn't answer that, because he did indeed smoke his entire supply over the weekend.

As they're getting settled and Bebe retrieves her pipe, there's a knock on Bebe's bedroom door. It's Karen – she asks if she can smoke with them. Kenny immediately answers no, until Bebe gives him a stern look and tells him not to infantilize his sister.

"Tweek honey," – Oh lord, Craig thinks, Bebe is already including Tweek in her 'honeys' and 'babies' and 'sweeties' – "why don't you take off your coat? It's totally stifling in here."

Tweek shakes his head, reclining where he commandeered Bebe's plastic purple beanbag chair, which is where Craig usually sits. He doesn't speak, just watches as Kenny packs a bowl in his expert, methodical way of doing so. The lighters all come out at once – Craig's plain one, Tweek's tie-dye, Bebe's sparkly and pink, Kenny's pinup girl, and Karen's, which is covered in My Little Pony glitter stickers.

It only takes one round passing the pipe around the circle for Kenny to decide that he needs to inform them all of the sex that he and Bebe had had earlier that evening. He opens up one of the copies Bebe has of Tweek's zine and indicates to one of the raunchy illustrations, "We did this one."

"Fuck, I love that one," Tweek says, "I'm glad somebody got to put it to use."

All heads turn to him.

"Whoopsie," Tweek expresses, smothering a chuckle.

"Baby, did you write that?" Bebe points to the zine, where Kenny still holds it open on the elaborately illustrated sex section.

Tweek inhales from Bebe's glass pipe and passes it to Kenny before he responds hazily, "Yeah. It's like, Jesus, people are way dumb about shit, especially about sex and feelings and all this basic shit, you know? I wanted to provide a guide so that we'd all be a little less fucking stupid."

"I'll smoke to that," Kenny says, tipping the pipe at Tweek in acknowledgement.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my gorgeous reviewers: KirstenTheDestroyer, prettyoddrydonfan, theyellowsky, lilykinz200, KeiMaxwell, Danceswithsmurfscbaloggingin, CameForthSweetness, Wendlekins, w0rmsign, mallorymichael and MariePierre. **

**Special thank yous to KirstenTheDestroyer and glow vomit who drew me beautiful art. **


	5. Truth is a Luxury

**Chapter Track: Scapegoat – Chumbawamba **

Tweek tells Craig that he threw the mother of all tantrums to land him this job. Craig isn't certain that it's true. Mr. and Mrs. Tweak, scolding aside, appear to be willing to give their son anything he wants. It's perhaps why Tweek is such a spoiled fucking brat, and gets away with fuck-all.

Nevertheless, Craig is grateful. The worst part about getting here was probably training with Mr. Tweak, who gets lost in his own metaphors about hard work and latte recipes and forgets what the hell he's talking about. But he's better than being at home with Craig's dad. Craig would choose Tweak Bros over his house any day of the week, even if it did mean getting high less and having to deal with a bunch of assholes more.

At least it got his folks off his back about money, and all the shit that they blamed him for. If Craig isn't around, they can't blame their bullshit on him. At least he thinks so. They'll inevitably concoct creative ways of attributing household wrongdoing to him. He's their favorite scapegoat.

Scapegoat.

Craig fucking hates that word. He doesn't know why he thought it, but some days, _scapegoat_ seems lodged in his brain. It's the purpose that he serves to his family, yes. But it also marks the words that put an end to his friendship with Clyde and Token.

_All you do is use him as your fucking scapegoat, Craig._

That's what Token had told him.

_And he just takes it, because he loves you, because you're his goddamn friend. You're a pretty shitty friend, if you ask me._

Clyde hadn't stood up for himself. It had been Token that had become fed up with Craig's bullshit, even if the bullshit hadn't been directed at him. Clyde actually shook his head at Token's words, looking like a deer in fucking headlights when Craig said, "Why don't we ask Clyde what _he_ thinks?"

"Craig."

Craig shoves himself out of his thoughts. This is becoming a constant for him, thinking of Clyde and Token. He can never glance back at the good memories without thinking of all the stupid crap that he pulled, where he went wrong, how fucking _humiliated_ he is. But he will never fucking admit that. He won't admit that he thinks he might be lonely, either. Speaking thoughts aloud is a death sentence. It makes them real. Even if nobody can hear you but yourself, you've admitted it. So, Craig won't confess. He'll keep them locked up inside his head.

"Craig!"

"What the fuck do you want?" he snaps, turning sharply to make sure that Mr. Tweak isn't standing behind him. The space behind the counter is thankfully clear of Tweaks – but in front of the counter, not as clear. Tweek stares down at Craig, his lower lip stuck out in a petulant scowl, as though he expects Craig to pay attention to him during his entire shift and quit fucking daydreaming.

Tweek lifts his fists. In each hand, he holds a crayon. He asks, "What color should I use?"

Craig thinks that Tweek has purposely chosen the two ugliest colors in his box of crayons. He stares at them for a long moment before choosing the forest green crayon – which Craig identifies only by the name on its paper wrapper.

"I knew it," Tweek says, "You always choose cool colors. I mean cool as opposed to warm, not cool as awesome. You actually have poor taste in color."

"How fucking alarming. The colorblind kid sucks with colors," Craig deadpans in return. He stares at his nails boredly.

"That makes so much sense," Tweek nods, "What kind? Red-green, blue-yellow?"

"Why the fuck are you so interested?" Craig snips. Over the course of the past two weeks, Craig has discovered that Tweek knows too much about too many useless, insignificant things (When Craig had fucked up a drink order and blamed it on his left-handedness, Tweek swooped in and informed him, "M.C. Escher was left handed." This earned him, "Was M.C. Escher also a fucking barista, Tweek." "Well, no." "Then shut the fuck up, you twat.").

"Because you're interesting," Tweek replies.

Craig gazes at Tweek for a long moment before responding, "Tweek, that's the fucking weirdest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth, and you say _a lot_ of weird-ass shit."

"You don't find yourself interesting?"

"No. Do you?"

"I don't know," answers Tweek.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Craig asks testily.

Tweek shrugs. He says, "I guess I just don't feel feelings about myself."

The bell that's fastened to the top of the door by a frayed, yellow ribbon tinkles. Craig's gut sinks low when Token and Clyde stride through the door. They look so fucking _good. _They always did in comparison to Craig, but now, with Craig out of the picture, they look even snappier as best friends. It's almost as if Craig was dragging them down, tarnishing their image with his smelly, gross, big-nosed face and his lack of decorum.

"I didn't know you work here," Token remarks carefully when they pull up to the counter. Clyde is lingering behind Token like he did on that day when Craig fucked everything up.

Maybe that was the worst of that confrontation – the fact that Clyde felt as though he had to hide from Craig, that he had been afraid of how Craig would react to what he and Token were telling him that he felt as though he couldn't be too close. And he'd been right. Fuck.

Craig feels his lips turn down into a deep frown.

"What can I get you?" Craig asks, carefully constructing his tone to sound harmless. Tragically, Craig lacks the ability to sound harmless, and sounds irritated and flat.

"Caramel latte," Token clips.

Craig takes his money and slides his eyes over to Clyde, who gives him a wobbly smile. Craig asks, "Paying together or separate?"

"Separate."

Craig passes Token his change and makes the drink at a purposefully slow pace.

When Clyde comes up to the counter, he greets quietly, "Hey. How are you, man?"

"Just tell me what you want to drink, Clyde," Craig states. What the hell is he supposed to answer that question with, anyway? The truth? _I'm fucking miserable. I can't wait to get out of here. The weird-ass kid eyeing us both from across the room has taken an interest in me and won't leave me alone. _

"Craig is good!"

Both Craig and Clyde turn their heads the exclamation. It's from Tweek, of course, who stands and pushes past Clyde to stand in front of Craig. Tweek defends, "Craig and I are friends…and we have fantastic sex."

"No we –"

"It's great," continues Tweek, "Craig has like, amazing stamina. And we fuck like three times a day."

Clyde's face turns a deep shade of pink. He's obviously struggling with how to respond to Tweek's wild claims, but what he finally settles on is less impressive than anybody was expecting. He stammers, "I'll just have a vanilla frappuccino."

Craig takes Clyde's money and fixes the drink as quickly as he can. He almost told Clyde that getting a vanilla frappuccino is stupid, because it's nothing but an overpriced milkshake, but remembered that they're not friends anymore. Craig got in trouble for saying shit like that to Clyde, anyway. It was one of the many things brought to light during the last confrontation he had with his ex-friends.

Of course, Craig hadn't believed Token when he shouted that Craig treated Clyde like shit – that Clyde was his scapegoat, the thing that he used when he was angry and needed to take the edge off of his fury. So Craig had asked the magic words '_Why don't we ask Clyde what _he_ thinks?' _He feels a terrible, scratchy shame fill him up when he remembers how scathingly he said those words, like Clyde couldn't possibly have an opinion that matters. He was angry, so angry, Craig tries to tell himself, that he didn't know what he was doing. But he did know what he was doing, and he's a worthless piece of shit for being that way. He hates when Clyde asks him how he is now, because Craig thinks that Clyde knows the answer to that. Craig is at an impressive low, and the only thing on his mind is getting the fuck out of here.

Craig gives Clyde extra whipped cream like he likes it, even though he didn't ask for it. He was probably too flustered to make the request. He caps the drink and passes it, before stalking over to where Tweek has reseated himself at his favorite booth with his crayons and papers.

"What the fuck was that?" demands Craig.

"What? He was bothering you," Tweek says, the same way one says 'the grass is green' or 'I enjoy going to the movies.'

Craig takes in a deep breath, "Tweek, why don't you mind your own fucking business? I'm fucking serious."

"I'm sorry," Tweek says, in that tone of voice that Craig has become accustomed to knowing as 'Tweek is not even the slightest bit sorry.'

"No you aren't, you insufferable prick," Craig argues. He picks up the crayon nearest to him and chucks it at Tweek's head.

Tweek narrows his eyes and folds his hands, "Sorry, I was under the impression that you were stuck in an uncomfortable situation and needed rescuing because you're too much of a pussy to tell Clyde to fuck off. I'm not an insufferable prick, you are, you insufferable prick."

"How the hell do you know that I was uncomfortable?" demands Craig, "You have about as many feelings as the bench that your skinny ass is parked on."

Tweek throws a crayon at Craig's head, much in the same manner that Craig did a few moments before, except that he chucks three more after it, glowering like a child. He mutters, "Fuck you. I am rubber, you are glue, what you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Asshat."

"I hate you," replies Craig. He gathers the crayons from where they've rolled to various places on the coffee shop floor, before casting them into Tweek's face and announcing, "I'm not having sex with Tweek!" loudly enough for Token and Clyde to glance up from their booth at the pair of them, and Kyle and Ike, who have just pushed open the front door, to burst into low chuckles.

"Oh, fuck you, Broflovski," Craig spits out, lifting the middle fingers on both hands, and not knowing or caring which Broflovski he is referring to. Probably Ike.

Once Craig has made Kyle and Ike's drinks (careful to get Kyle's exactly right, because he's exactly the kind of butthole that'll complain if he doesn't have exactly the correct measurement of mocha in his soy half-foam prissy-ass whatever), he slides into Tweek's booth in the seat across from him, where, apparently, he is being exacted punishment in the form of the silent treatment.

"Quit being a douche."

"Tweek."

"Come on."

"Tweek."

"Tweek."

Craig aims a kick at Tweek's shin and hits it spot-on. Tweek grunts in pain, a mere nanosecond before Craig's kick is returned to him with twice the gusto.

"_Fuck_," Craig says, audibly enough to get more looks from Token and Clyde. The way that they're staring at him is off-putting, almost as if –

They're talking about him.

He frowns, the sense of being left out sweeping over him, even though he isn't being left out of anything. He hasn't been their friend in forever. There's nothing of Token and Clyde's that Craig needs to be included in anymore, just like Craig needn't include them in his shit anymore, either. Except, that that's the problem. He included them in too much of it. At least, he thinks that's what it is.

Craig shakes himself out of it, pointing his gaze down at the table. He snags one of Tweek's sheets of printer paper and a crayon, drawing. It turns into a bike, like his drawings always do. It's what he always doodles, and he isn't sure that he even knows how to draw anything else. To test the theory, he starts to draw a person on top on the bike, and ends up creating some mutilated and ill-proportioned dude with bad hair.

And then Craig asks, "How did you know I was uncomfortable, anyway." This time, he makes sure that his voice is low enough that only Tweek can hear.

Tweek responds, "Bebe says you and those guys have 'history,' or whatever." Tweek puts the word 'history' in air quotes.

Fucking Bebe.

Someplace in the logical sliver of Craig's mind, he knows that she means well. She just also finds Craig an acceptable and interesting topic of conversation, especially the subject 'why Craig is such an angry bitch,' or so Ike dubbed it. She likes making light of Craig's general pissed off-ness. Maybe it's some tactic to cheer him up, but ends up pissing him off more.

"I mean, you and them were friends when I left," comments Tweek.

"If you don't talk about what happened when you were gone, I'm not gonna talk about it either," clips Craig, and he scribbles out his shitty drawing with a flustered sigh.

Tweek murmurs, "I guess that's fair. And – hey! I liked that drawing. Why did you cross it out?"

"Because it sucked," Craig simplifies, but he passes the scribbled-on paper to Tweek, as if he'll care. Oddly, Tweek smiles a little when Craig sticks the drawing in front of him. He folds it into quarters and pulls his buttoned trench coat out in front of him, sliding the page into one of the inside pockets.

The rest of the day passes with little consequence. He lets out a breath of relief when Token and Clyde finally pack it up and leave, even though Clyde gives Craig a hesitant smile and a wave goodbye. The coffee shop feels happily vacant once they're out of sight, and Craig marvels at how full a room can feel when you have history with the people in it.

Craig figures when it's time to go home that he'll house himself in his bedroom and watch reruns of Red Racer while he lets his guinea pigs explore his bed. He still hasn't gotten his first paycheck yet, and so he doesn't have enough money to buy more weed off of Kenny, though his first priority is getting a new wheel for his bike, anyhow.

This is until Bebe comes in, looking cheerful and made-up as usual, in a pair of skintight jeans and a flamboyant coat that Craig is pretty sure is green, but can't know for certain.

"Hey baby," she greets, leaning on the counter and giving Craig an accidental shadow shot of cleavage.

"What do you want," he asks nasally.

"Mm, there's a party tonight. Are you interested?" she asks.

"I am!" exclaims Tweek. He gets up out of his seat, his trench coat making noise as he rushes over to hug Bebe. She hugs him right back, disappearing into the gratuitous fabric of the coat as she presses her face into Tweek's chest.

Bebe pulls back and plants a loud kiss on Tweek's cheek. It leaves a bright magenta mark, which Tweek rubs at like a child rubbing his grandmother's lipstick off of his face. She says, "Awesome. Can you be ready by nine, honey?"

"Okay," Tweek cheerfully agrees, "But Craig needs to come with us."

Bebe smirks a little at this and slides a look over at Craig. He pulls down on the strings of his hat, silently wishing that the hat was big enough to swallow him whole and make him disappear. Bebe and Tweek don't stop staring, though, and so he agrees, "Fuck. Fine." Even though he'd rather be alone with Zim and Gir, Craig does feel a twinge of curiosity at what it might be like to party with Tweek. Sure, they've smoked together. Tweek gets fucking _strange_ when he smokes. But it isn't the same. Craig likes to think that you know something personal about somebody once you've seen the way that they party.

Which is how Craig ends up crammed in Bebe's car with four other people. He somehow managed to be banished to the bitch seat between Ike and Tweek, both of whom are chattering together happily over Craig, about some cartoon show that Craig doesn't watch.

Craig has been accused of not wearing 'party clothes,' despite the fact that Tweek opted to wear his same baggy, ratty jeans and trench coat and is therefore also not dressed to party. Ike always tries to make himself look older, styling his hair in spikes that work in the opposite direction of Ike's intention. Kenny always looks a little cleaned up and clean-shaven, though he never takes off that sleeveless scrap of orange fabric. Bebe goes all out – tonight she wears an off-the-shoulder purple top that Craig thinks she might have made herself, and a leather miniskirt that Kenny keeps staring at out of the corner of his eye.

The party is at some house about an hour out of South Park, no place near a town, with all of the neighbors miles apart from one another. That being as it is, the party will probably be busted – up in the mountains like that, you can hear fucking _anything_, even people laughing loudly from miles away.

Accordingly, they know that Bebe has turned onto the right dirt road when they hear the party from a couple miles out. The beat echoes over the dark, empty space like waves. Bebe parks further out, on a back road mostly obscured by trees, just in case.

The house is too hot with too many people inside. It makes Craig feel trapped. He already wants to find a bedroom to hide in so that he can drink alone. He still has to find the drinks, in any case. As he shoves his way through the crowd grinding onto each other, he feels somebody grip his hand. Craig swings his head back, poised to punch some drunken asshole in the mouth, and sees that it's Tweek, who looks a little doe-eyed at the volume of people crammed into a middle-of-nowhere mountain house. And thus, instead of punching, Craig lowers his left fist to his side, and squeezes Tweek's hand in his other fist.

They locate the drinks in the kitchen, which is littered with teenagers pressing their bodies together and collecting their own alcohol. Craig takes two beers, cracking one open on the edge of the kitchen counter, and slipping the other into the pocket of his baggy jeans. Tweek, on the other hand, removes a jug of cheap orange juice from the fridge and splashes it into a plastic blue cup, followed with an almost equally generous splash of vodka. He downs the drink in a few quick swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and lifting his brow at Craig, as if saying 'beat that.'

So Craig does – he chugs his beer, squeezing his eyes shut against the bitter taste. It's awful, cheap beer, not the stuff that he prefers. This is Kenny's kind of shit. And, as if on cue, Kenny appears in the kitchen with his arm wrapped around Bebe's waist, and takes a few bottles, passing one to Bebe before he opens his own. They disappear back into the crowd moments later, but not before Kenny turns and gives Craig a salute.

Craig seems to have started an inadvertent drinking competition with Tweek, who is on his second vodka and orange juice, tipping it back with fervor.

Craig refuses to be beaten by some skinny, twitchy fucker in a creepy trench coat.

Drinks fly by. In little time, perhaps too short of a time, Craig feels light and fuzzy and warm. He's inebriated enough that when some Daft Punk song comes on, and Tweek slurs, "This is my music, man!" and grabs Craig's arm, Craig doesn't protest being dragged into the fray of sweating bodies.

Craig doesn't know how to dance. He doesn't fucking dance with anybody, but for some fucking reason, he's giving this weird fucker the time of day. Tweek's hair has come undone out of its short ponytail and hangs wildly around his face, becoming completely chaotic when Tweek moves his whole body to the beat. Craig stands awkwardly still, unsure of how to react. He bobs his head, because that is legitimately the only movement he can think of that won't make him look stupid.

And then he spots him – Clyde. He's staring at Craig from across the room, blue cup in hand. Craig wonders drunkenly why the fuck Clyde is even here. Clyde loves people and parties, but he seemed to be put off of them after the explosion between the two of them.

He'd thought that Craig was abusing partying. That he was using partying to do what counselors and therapists should do. He had told Craig that Craig could talk to Mr. Donovan if he wanted. Mr. Donovan would counsel Craig for free.

Craig didn't need any _fucking_ counseling. He didn't need some stupid fucking brain doctor, because his brain wasn't fucking broken. It isn't broken. It's fine. Craig is fine.

He'd punched Clyde in his stupid fucking face. Clyde was supposed to have his back. Clyde was supposed to be the guy that would tell Craig that he's fine and he didn't fucking need some pussy-ass doctor to fix him, because he _wasn't broken in the first place. _Clyde was supposed to be there to tell Craig that everything was okay, not tell Craig that nothing was okay and Craig needed to see somebody. He'd made Craig like everybody else made him feel, like some fucked-up problem.

It had taken Token and Mr. Black's combined strength to pry Craig off of Clyde. Clyde's face has been bruised and ripped to hell. Craig had done his best fucking work on it, and he would have been proud if the face belonged to anybody else. But Craig didn't realize the damage he had dealt after it was already over, until he was being held back by Token's dad, chest heaving, and Token was helping Clyde to his feet, asking if they needed to take him to Hell's Pass.

_Why don't we ask Clyde what he thinks?_

_I…I think this is bad, Craig. I think maybe you should talk to somebody. My dad would do it, if you wanted. Nobody would have to know._

_We're worried._

_I don't need any fucking help!_

_I don't need any fucking help! – _The words that ended their friendship. They were the words that came right before the fists. The words that prefaced Clyde's broken teeth and wired jaw.

Clyde and Token stopped speaking to him. They hadn't started again until recently, and fuck if Craig knows why they even bother. He obviously isn't worth their fucking time.

Fuck, he needs to be drunker.

Craig feels Tweek tug him in close, so that their bodies are wedged up against each other. Craig doesn't know if he should be doing this, but he's too drunk to question why he is, and so he loops his arms around Tweek's waist. The contents of Tweek's trench coat push up against Craig's chest uncomfortably. He doesn't care, he just needs Clyde to see that he's moved on. He has somebody, even if that somebody is the strangest motherfucker on the planet.

Craig doesn't want to think about anything.

He doesn't want to think about how Clyde couldn't eat anything but fucking smoothies for months after Craig had beaten the shit out of him, because his jaw was wired shut. He doesn't want to think about how scrawny and miserable that Clyde had looked in the aftermath. He doesn't want to think about the disapproving looks that Token sent him every time he sensed that Craig was staring at them. He doesn't want to think about how much he fucking missed them, and how much he fucking misses them now.

So he loses himself in the beat of the music, grinding up against Tweek without looking him in the eye. He focuses beyond Tweek's face, staring out at nothing and anything, just into space.

Token and Clyde had been right, of course. Craig used other people as his scapegoats, just like Craig was his parents' constant scapegoat. Craig used other people for excuses for why he was the way he was. Well, fuck that – now he knows. Craig is the only one to blame for the way he is, for his shit personality and his fits of anger that can't stop until he takes it out on somebody.

Tweek grips Craig against him, grinding up to the beat. When Craig looks, he sees that Tweek's eyes are closed, that he's biting his lower lip. He's just as far gone as Craig is, maybe even more. No – definitely more. Tweek is fucked _up. _He's all shaky and loose, pushing himself against Craig like he's dancing against a fucking pole.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit oh shit oh _shit._

Craig feels his body tingle in a sensation that he seldom feels. Tweek definitely feels it, too, because his eyes snap open and he gazes down at Craig through hazy, unsure eyes. He looks as though he knows what's happening but doesn't. He knows it's Craig and he knows that Craig is getting harder the more that they dance like this, but he doesn't _know. _

Craig feels his face prickle with heat and his stomach roil. He's on overdrive. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He's got a fucking _erection_, and he's rubbing it up against the crazy kid. Fucking Tweek Tweak. This isn't good. This is heading south.

And so is his stomach.

Craig rips himself out of Tweek's arms and stumbles out of the press and grind of smelly bodies. He's on fire and his veins are pumping alcohol instead of blood. He thinks he hears Tweek calling out for him to wait, but he can't tell, not with the buzz of nausea that washes over his body and makes it tingle with that awful, ill feeling.

Craig busts into the downstairs bathroom just in time to collapse onto his knees in front of the toilet and cast up the watery contents of his stomach. He throws up a second time before a second can even pass, and lets his head hang in the bowl in case anything else comes up from his throat.

It takes a couple minutes for Craig's surroundings to come back into focus. He's gotten vomit in his hair. Awesome. He can't find the willpower to move his head out of toilet to try and wash the mess out. Behind him, some dude is passed out with a beer in his hand and his baseball hat covering his face. The bathroom is uncomfortably homey, decked out in mauve and light gold. There's a picture of Jesus above the toilet, and Craig feels even sicker because Jesus has just witnessed him vomiting. Jesus is watching him slog through his lowest.

"Shit," he hears behind him, but Craig is too tired to lift his head, "Why would you fucking put a picture of Jesus there? It's like he can watch you taking a shit or something, man."

Craig turns just barely, then.

It's Tweek, holding a new blue cup. He's swaying on his feet, and looks woozily happy.

"Did you just toss your fucking cookies, man?"

"Ugh," answers Craig, a clear grunt in the affirmative.

Tweek sets his cup on the bathroom counter beside the sink and a glass container of potpourri, before crouching next to Craig, inspecting him. At the exact same moment, Craig feel nausea pound back into him and gags. Tweek yanks Craig's hair out of his face just in time for Craig to vomit into the toilet a third time.

Tweek stands, wobbling, and asks, "Feel any better?"

"Yeah," Craig groans. He thinks that that's the last of the puke, but doesn't feel like removing his head from the toilet bowl quite yet.

For whatever reason, Craig's moan of complaint prompts Tweek to pluck the plunger from its place beside the toilet, and pat Craig's back – he thinks that Tweek is trying to comfort him, and his suspicions are confirmed when Tweek soothingly reassures him, "There, there." The vague notion that being patted by a toilet plunger would normally bother Craig crosses his mind, and so Craig half-heartedly bats the plunger away and tries to stand. Tweek helps heave him up, tossing the plunger out into the hallway so that he can use both of his hands.

As a collective, Tweek and Craig manage to rinse the vomit out of Craig's hair. They stumble back out into the party. Craig doesn't want to go back. He doesn't want to be around Clyde. He doesn't want Clyde to see him like this. He wants to be alone.

"Wait," whines Tweek, when Craig tears away and stalks in the opposite direction, up the stairs. Tweek bumbles after him.

Craig has the misfortune of opening a bedroom door and finding a couple mid-coitus – a couple that happens to be Bebe and Kenny. At least it's something that he's seen before. They don't seem too fucked up. They're not nearly as shitfaced as Tweek and Craig, in any case, though clearly drunk enough to not notice Craig standing there, dumbly watching them get it on.

"Damn," Tweek remarks. He trips into Craig's shoulder just as Craig regains his senses and closes the door.

"Maybe we should sit," Craig mumbles, if only because his head is swimming and Tweek is giggling uncontrollably.

Tweek nods. They plop down in the middle of the unlit, upstairs hallway. Craig scoots back against the door of a linen closet, clutching at his head and wondering when he lost his hat. Probably in the throng of dancing teenagers. It was already off of his head by the time he had his face stuck in the toilet bowl downstairs.

"Are Kenny and Bebe like," Tweek pauses to hiccup, "an exclusive thing?"

Craig rolls his eyes. He doesn't give a shit what Kenny and Bebe do. Still, he responds, "Sort of? I think Bebe still bangs other people, but like I think Kenny just fucks her? But like, he doesn't tell anybody?"

Tweek hums in acknowledgement and crawls over to sit next to Craig. He stares at Craig with his wide eyes, squinting, as though he can't see Craig correctly. He announces, "You're fucking pretty, Craig."

"You're fucking drunk, Tweek," retorts Craig.

"No, no, I'm serious," Tweek assures him, "Here, lemme show you."

Tweek reaches forward and cups Craig's jaw. He whispers, "Really fucking pretty," before he tugs Craig's lips up to meet his own. Tweek tastes sour, like too much vodka, but his lips are soft and taste faintly of Chapstick.

Only, Tweek tears away a second later. He looks scared when he pulls back, and he scoots away from Craig, scuttling back in a drunken type of crab-walk.

"Sorry!" he shouts. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears.

Craig is still trying to process exactly what happened. He hasn't been kissed in what feels like a billion years. He never kissed Kenny when they messed around, and the one time he let Bebe fuck him, they didn't kiss either. His first and last kiss was way back in the eighth grade, with Red. It was gross, and Craig hadn't liked it one fucking bit. She tasted too sweet, like Bubble Tape and mint toothpaste. Nothing like Tweek. Tweek tastes nasty, but Craig likes his kiss a whole lot better.

"What."

That is the only word that Craig can manage.

"I'm so sorry! I forgot!"

"…Forgot what?" Craig asks. He's so fucking confused. All he wants to do is try that kiss again. He scoots over to where Tweek cowers in the corner of the hallway, in front of another bedroom door. Some other couple's moans leak out from under the crack beneath the door. The guy must be a total loser, 'cause it sounds like she's pretending to enjoy whatever he's doing.

"I'm crazy! I'm not supposed to kiss people here!" Tweek cries.

"But," Craig finds himself saying, "But I wanna do it again."

"W-What?" Tweek asks. His eyes are watery now, red-rimmed.

Craig reaches over. He clumsily tangles his hands in Tweek's hair, and because he distantly remembers Tweek telling him that he likes his hair being pulled, Craig grips the blond hair tighter and tugs forward, bringing him into another kiss.

Craig falls on top of Tweek, but he doesn't mind, even if Tweek's trench coat is lumpy with whatever shit he carries around with him. Tweek whimpers when Craig yanks his hair again. It's a good whimper, a whimper that goes straight to Craig's dick and revives his erection from earlier.

Tweek pushes his tongue into Craig's mouth. He still tastes bad, but the warm metal of his tongue ring catches against Craig's tongue and makes him hornier than hell itself. He pushes up as close as he can to Tweek, kissing so hard that it feels as though he's dining on Tweek's mouth.

"Fuck," he hears at the top of the stairs. Craig rips his mouth off of Tweek's, wiping their combined saliva off of his lips with the back of his hand. Backlit by the light coming from downstairs…is Clyde. Craig can't make out his expression, but he finds this to be a perfect opportunity to display just how much he doesn't fucking need Clyde anymore.

Tweek does, too. He closes his fists around the collar of Craig's t-shirt and pulls him down again, smashing their lips together.

Craig likes it. He likes it a whole lot.

He likes kissing crazy-ass Tweek.

And he doesn't give a damn who knows.

Especially Clyde.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hi all – I'm sorry that this took longer than usual. Basically, I woke up at two in the morning yesterday in ridiculous amounts of pain, and stayed disgusting, vomiting sick until late Friday night. I'm still not in the best shape, but I gave my body the old 'fuck you' and wrote this anyway.**

**I apologize for any errors.**

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers: MariePierre, prettyoddrydonfan, KeiMaxwell, lilykinz200, w0rmsign, ninemillionhigh, Kayakokitty, mallorymichael, (an anonymous reviewer), KirstenTheDestroyer, ValsWinter, Bittersquid, MrSuperZebra, Kuutamolla, TheAwesome15, and sadpeople56.**

**Special thank yous to KirstenTheDestroyer, MrSuperZebra, and sadpeople56 for making me **_**gorgeous**_** art, all of which you can find on my profile.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	6. Spinning Circles Around My Ears

**Chapter Track: Everything Is – Neutral Milk Hotel**

What registers first is the sour scent of bile, followed by the sensation of something _alive_ underneath Craig's cheek. It's the warmth and the breathing that startle him into opening his eyes. It is thankfully dark in whatever hole that Craig decided to fall asleep in. There are no lights on and no windows, though when his vision comes into focus, he can see light coming up from a set of stairs. He doesn't want to move. His head pounds viciously and his whole body is tingling with the feeling of nausea.

Fuck.

This is the point in the morning at which Craig strives to remember what the fuck he did that got him here, in this dark hallway, reeking of vomit, and on top of Tweek.

Wait, on top of Tweek?

Craig pries his face up, staring down at the sleeping form below him. There's a patch of drool on Tweek's chest where Craig's face just was, and Tweek's trench coat is missing. The rest of his clothing is intact – a concert t-shirt of some band that Craig has never heard of, his unattractively cut jeans, even his shoes are still on.

How the fuck did he end up on Tweek?

He looks kind of different when he's sleeping. His face is relaxed. He looks a little like the Tweek that Craig knew before he left school, kind of like a kid.

Oh, shit. Craig crawls off of Tweek and hurls onto the carpet beside him.

"Watch the coat, jackass," grunts Tweek, apparently awake. Craig realizes that he is vomiting directly beside Tweek's discarded trench coat, and pushes it to side when he heaves a second time. Tweek chuckles hoarsely, "Jesus, you got fucked _up,_" but promptly swears afterward at the effects of his own hangover. He smears his hands over his face and whines low in his throat.

Craig wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie, willing the taste of throw up away. He doesn't even want to begin imagining liquid. He doesn't want sunlight. He just wants to curl up in this dark hallway and forget that he is alive. Unfortunately, he has no idea to whom this house belongs. Otherwise, he'd stay until he felt less like a puddle of skin and sickness on the carpet. He pulls back the sleeve of his blue hoodie and checks the time on his watch (call him old fashioned, but he refuses to let go of his collectible Red Racer digital watch. It's a relic of the nineties, and the only gift that his dad's ever given him that meant something).

It's almost ten o'clock, and if Craig doesn't collect Bebe and Kenny, he doesn't think that anyone will. They could sleep until late afternoon if they were allowed. Come to think of it, he could too. But Craig has work today at noon, and he feels like the Tweaks already think that he's an irresponsible twat – he did give their son a black eye. Nevermind that Tweek had given him one, too.

"Why are you standing up?" groans Tweek. His hands are still covering his eyes, like he's afraid of what he'll see if he moves them off of his face.

"I have work," Craig grunts. He clutches at his head and props himself up against somebody's bedroom door. He's hoping it's the room that Bebe and Kenny are in, though he can't remember where, exactly, he and Tweek found them, just that it happened.

Sure enough, Bebe and Kenny are tangled together on some poor kid's race car bed. Kenny's wearing his mutilated orange hoodie and Bebe is wearing a fantastically skimpy hot pink bra. Still clutching his head, and propping himself up on the bedside table, Craig nudges Bebe's thigh with the toe of his sneaker.

She groans without opening her eyes and kicks him, to which Craig says, "I don't have time for this shit. I have work today."

He leaves, after that. Tweek is still on the hallway floor, back to the carpet, hands over his face. Craig dodges his vomit and picks up Tweek's trench coat. It's heavy, and makes too much noise. When he drops it on top of Tweek, it falls open – and some of the contents spill out. Pill bottles, lots of pill bottles, fall out in every direction. A small box of crayons slips onto the carpet, followed by a box of Mickey Mouse Band-Aids and a bottle of Coppertone sunscreen, all sliding across the silky lining.

Tweek shoots into a sitting position and exclaims, "Fuck!" as he sends more pocket-contents sailing.

"Shit," mutters Craig. He doesn't know why he bothers, but he crawls across the carpet to retrieve the errant pill bottles threatening to roll down the stairs.

Craig manages to rescue four of them. Out of curiosity, a curiosity he feels as though he maybe shouldn't have, he reads the labels. Written in all caps, none of them sound even vaguely familiar. All of it is gibberish with long names that he can't pronounce in his stupid hungover mind: _LISDEXPHETAMINE, PAROXETNE, BENZATROPINE, RISPERIDONE._

"What are you doing, you fucking asswipe? Give those back!" Tweek, where he was lying on the floor, is now kneeling, shoving the items strewn across the carpet back into the inside pockets of his trench coat. He snatches the bottles of pills out of Craig's hands, glowering. Tweek reads each bottle before replacing them in the pockets, a different pocket for each plastic orange cylinder. When he's gathered all of his belongings back into the coat, Tweek shoves it over his shoulders and buttons it – incorrectly.

Craig turns to wander downstairs. He hopes that Ike has made coffee of some kind, and that maybe he can find the medicine cabinet in this stranger's house and pilfer some ibuprofen before he's subjected to an hour long ride in Bebe's car with this posse of fucking idiots.

Tweek yanks Craig back by his hood, forcing Craig to face him. Craig's instinct, naturally, is to punch the fuck out of him, but at the _fury_ in Tweek's eyes, he lowers his fist to his side.

"What?" he demands, folding his arms.

Tweek releases him and spits out, "Do not. Touch. My stuff. _Ever._"

"I was just trying to help, you fuck –"

"_Ever_," Tweek emphasizes.

"Fuck, fine," Craig waves him off.

The look plastered on Tweek's typically blank face is terrifying. His eyes are narrowed and murderous, and his lips are screwed into a scowl. It isn't Tweek's usual tactic of pouting, it is a fucking serious face. Craig huffs and tears his eyes away, feeling uncomfortable. He trudges downstairs without another word.

What he finds in the kitchen is worse than merely one Ike Broflovski – it is Ike Broflovski and Clyde Donovan. Both have mugs of coffee in hand. Clyde frowns when Craig slogs in, while Ike grins widely and greets, "Good morning, starshine."

"Ike," Craig clips, "I will shit on everything you love."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, asshat," says Ike.

"I don't appreciate your fucking face, dickhole," Craig snaps back. He looks through three different cupboards before he finds the cupboard containing the mugs, and pulls down one with the name of some law firm on the side in ugly gold font, pouring himself a cup of coffee. It makes his stomach twist up, but he doesn't have any other options – coffee is the only tool in his hand he can use to survive the car ride back to South Park.

"Oh, that's original. Did you come up with that all by yourself?" mocks Ike cheerily, that impish look of I'm-not-hungover-and-you-are in his eyes.

"Go choke on a dick," Craig mumbles. He isn't really into the argument, not like Ike is. Ike is energized by debate and arguing, probably because he's a little shit that always knows that he's going to win.

The corners of Ike's lips turn up even further and he slyly remarks, "Or I could suck on the crazy kid's tongue, like you."

"What."

"Clyde here tells me that he saw you and our dear friend Tweek playing tonsil hockey," Ike swirls the coffee in his mug as though it's a fine wine in a crystal glass and sips.

"Ike," protests Clyde, elbowing him in the side.

"Who the fuck says 'tonsil hockey' anymore?" comes a voice from behind Craig, a voice that turns out to be Kenny. He has eyeliner smudged underneath his eyes and his hair is a fucking rat's nest of tangles, but he's fully dressed and looks otherwise okay. Craig finds himself wondering why he is always the most hungover.

He also wonders why the fuck he doesn't remember sticking his tongue down Tweek's throat, though he does recall grinding up against him in the middle off a mass of sticky bodies, and he does remember getting a little hard. He hopes that Tweek doesn't recollect that gem – Craig would rather be spared the embarrassment of getting an erection up against somebody's leg.

"Where's Bebe? She looked damn fine last night, you lucky son of a bitch," asks Ike, who is not at all shy about his appreciation of Bebe and her good looks, mainly the good looks that have to do with her generous tits.

Kenny rolls his eyes, stealing Ike's coffee mug from his grip and dumping a gulp down his throat. Bebe appears a few moments later, looking dazed and speaking to Tweek, whose hand is tucked in hers. He looks normal again, like nothing ever happened – like his trench coat never spilled open and like Craig never saw the innards of the silky pockets.

"Hey baby," greets Ike, bouncing his brows at Bebe, who flips him off. He ignores the hand gesture and goes on, "Clyde got his dumb ass ditched here. He needs a ride back and I told him that we would provide."

Bebe's mouth opens a little. Her eyes dart to Craig before she can stop them, and she says, "Why did you tell him that? It's not your fucking car."

"C'mon, Bebe," implores Clyde, "I'll pitch in for gas money."

"I don't have room in my goddamn car," she snips, but she also shifts a little to stand in front of Craig. He doesn't like it. It feels like she's trying to defend him, even though Craig deserves no defense, and if anybody should be stranded an hour out of South Park, it should be him.

"We could always put Ike in the trunk," suggests Kenny, "then nobody will have to fucking listen to him."

"No way, bro," Ike objects, "I would sit in somebody's lap before I let you morons lock me in a trunk."

Glances are exchanged then, and Bebe says, "In that case, you can sit in Clyde's lap."

They squabble like children on the way out of the debris-littered house. There are bottles and cans and blue cups stacked on nearly every surface available, and they are not the only teenagers that passed out. There are three on the couch and a couple on the living room floor, reportedly more in the upstairs bedrooms.

At the front door, Craig pats down his greasy hair and says, "Fuck. Wait, I need to find my hat."

"I got it," Clyde reaches into the pocket of his baggy jeans and passes it to Craig, looking slightly guilty, as though picking up Craig's hat and keeping it in his pocket is an unforgivable crime. Craig doesn't say anything, just plucks it out of Clyde's grip and pulls it down onto his head as far as it can stretch.

In the car, Bebe digs around in her purse, extracting a package of spearmint gum before he retrieves her keys. She passes them all a piece, for which Craig is silently thankful. His mouth tastes like vomit and coffee, an unpleasant flavor combination. He rolls his head back into the rest, trying his damnedest to ignore that Clyde is a mere two seats to his left. In addition to the fact that there is an irritating, prepubescent twat seated in his lap, Clyde's presence unnerves Craig. Every time that Clyde is near, Craig's head screams at him. _What you did was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. _He can't shake the chant.

"So, Tweek, is Craig a good kisser?" Ike prods Tweek, who has the misfortune of being assigned to the middle seat by command of Bebe.

"I kissed Craig?" Tweek says. His eyes slide over to where Craig is trying to pretend that the conversation isn't happening and repeats, "When the fuck did I kiss you?"

"I dunno, Clyde saw it," Ike shrugs.

"Good for you guys," Bebe says, and she sounds like she means it.

"I don't remember if Craig is a good kisser or not," Tweek admits. He tugs on the left string on Craig's hat and queries, "Do you remember?"

"No," Craig says.

Tweek goes on, "'Cause I remember Craig getting a woody while we were dancing, and then I think Craig ran off to the bathroom? Did I make you cry? I'm sorry if I made you cry."

"Why the fuck would I cry, Tweek," Craig says.

"Because you rubbed your pocket rocket all over my leg? Jesus, man, I dunno," Tweek holds up his hands in defense.

Craig holds a hand over his face while Ike cackles gleefully at the revelation that Craig got a hard-on from grinding with Tweek. Kenny looks amused, Bebe is smirking, and Clyde looks like he doesn't know what to think. Craig thinks that he would rather be dead right now than hungover in a car with these people.

"Don't be embarrassed," Tweek continues, "I thought it was kind of nice."

"Yeah, Craig, he thought it was kind of nice," echoes Ike, and he giggles like a hyena.

Clyde says, "Guys, stop it."

"I don't fucking need your help, Clyde," Craig snaps.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't apologize to me, you dumb fucker," Craig hears his voice raise, feels a prickle in the back of his brain, and watches his fists start to shakes where they're clenched in his lap. His head is throbbing, mostly from his hangover, but he can feel himself getting angrier behind the exhausted layer of nauseated aching.

"Why don't you kiss him again, Tweek?" taunts Ike.

"Okay," Tweek agrees. He leans into Craig's face, and that's what does it –

Craig shoves Tweek into Clyde and Ike and shouts, "Bebe, pull the _fuck_ over!"

"What? Why?"

"I think you'd better do it," Kenny advises.

Craig throws open the door even as Bebe is still slowing down. He stumbles out into the stretch of nothing but dry brush and frozen snow, marching as far away from them as he can get. He doesn't fucking care if he has work. He just needs to breathe, and being in that car made him feel as though he was trapped in a tiny closet with an elephant sitting on his chest. Craig glances over his should as he walks away, plopping down on the ground when he judges the car and those fucking people far enough away that he won't feel like ripping their heads off.

Digging into the pockets of his jeans, Craig is relieved to find that he still has his cigarettes and lighter on his person. He lights one and inhales. He realizes that he's sitting in snow at the same moment that he realizes that his ass is freezing cold. His everywhere is cold, except for his head, which is pumping too much blood, too fast.

Halfway through the cigarette, Craig's fists start to uncurl. He's left red marks where his fingernails dug into his skin. He gets so fucking furious. He doesn't know why it has to happen the way it does. He's relieved that he managed to keep himself in check this time. Even if he did push Tweek away, he succeeded in not punching any of their stupid fucking faces in. That's good.

When Craig's breathing has slowed to normal and he crushes his cigarette underneath his sneaker, he hears the crunch of somebody crossing the icy snow. He doesn't know why, but he's relieved when he sees that it's Bebe. She must be freezing fucking cold in her tiny little outfit. She isn't wearing any tights with her leather miniskirt.

"Can I sit next to you?" she asks.

Craig nods.

"Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Absolutely fucking not," answers Craig.

Bebe presses her legs together and shivers. She tucks a lock of curly hair behind one ear and asks, "You want shotgun the rest of the way home?"

"Shit," Craig swears, "Please."

"It's all yours, sweetheart," Bebe smiles a little. She lifts her hand, maybe to rub his back or touch his hair, but the hand falls back to her side when Craig flinches and she remembers that he doesn't want anybody's hands on him.

When Craig climbs to his feet, he doesn't offer a hand to Bebe. He just marches back to the car. He feels only marginally better, and is now dreading going to work. He climbs back into the car as soon as Bebe's caught up to him.

Once they've all settled in for the second time, she turns to the four in the backseat and lectures, "Fucking behave yourselves, you assholes."

Even Ike remains silent for the remaining fifty minutes of the car ride. It's not a bad silence. Craig can't fall asleep, but Clyde and Kenny are both passed out, leaning their heads against the window glass. Bebe doesn't speak. Even though she's driving, she looks like she's dreaming. Craig, meanwhile, finds himself wanting to know how it's possible that the body glitter she applied last night is still stuck firmly to her shoulders, and sparkling obnoxiously in the sunlight.

Once he's been dropped off at home, he dares a once-over in the mirror. Craig never looks quite fortunate, but today his reflection makes him frown more than usual. He splashes water on his face and rubs at his eyes and even ends up chancing a shave – but three cuts later, he looks just about the same.

Before he begins his short trek to Tweak Bros, Craig makes sure that Zim and Gir have an acceptable amount of food and water. They look up at him with sad eyes, and Craig feels the need to reassure them, "I know I haven't been around much. I promise we'll hang out tomorrow, okay?" They look like perhaps they're upset with him, but his guinea pigs will forgive him. You always forgive the guy that feeds you. Or has your weed – Craig can't stay pissed at Kenny for more than a handful of days.

Craig smokes through two cigarettes on the walk to Tweak Bros. It's snowing lightly, the kind of snow that doesn't amount to anything but slippery, wet crap in the morning when you're trying to drive through it. He pulls his hood over his hat and shivers, wishing he'd had the common fucking sense to bring his heavier coat. During the walk, he notices more of Tweek's art on the walls of more buildings – insane, strange drawings that make Craig a little uncomfortable if he looks at them too long. There are ghouls and monsters and sentient slabs of meat.

Tweek is absolutely fucked in the head.

He's taking about ten million different medications, too.

Craig can't really remember the names of them, they were all long and medical sounding. Risperidone? Was that one of them? No wonder Tweek is so fucking weird – he's drugged out on a bunch of shit.

When Craig arrives, soaked through to the skin, at Tweak Bros, Tweek is no place to be found. It's only Mr. Tweak, standing behind the counter and smiling a painful smile. It dims a little when Craig comes in, probably because he wishes that Craig was a customer and not his lazy, good-for-nothing employee.

"Good gracious, Craig," he says, surveying Craig's dripping wet state, "Are you alright? Do you need fresh clothing?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Tweak," Craig says, "I'll dry off in the back room. Where's Tweek?"

"I've told you – call me Richard. He's at a doctor's appointment with my wife," hums Mr. Tweak, "It's so nice that you two are little friends. Cindy and I – we were so afraid that he wouldn't be able to integrate. He's a lost little lamb, my boy, kind of like…"

This is where Craig decides Mr. Tweak's sentence has ended, because Richard has a habit of trailing off in the middle of his metaphors. He suits himself up in is apron after he's dried off a little and warmed up enough to feel his toes when the snow soaked through the canvas of his sneakers.

And so begins today's tour of mediocrity. The formerly irritating snow serves a renewed purpose: Keeping potential customers at home, and Craig joyously alone at the cash register. He spends most of the day catching up on mundane homework assignments and wishing that he was high or asleep. This Saturday has been less than ideal. The more that Craig thinks on it, the more ashamed he is of his outburst in Bebe's car. Sure, he was hungover, but he threw a fucking tantrum for at least a solid twenty minutes. And he was kind of a dick to Tweek. Tweek, who is on a lot of medications. Tweek, who maybe doesn't understand that somebody suggesting that you kiss another person might be joking.

Fuck.

When Craig decides his musing has gone too far, he texts Kenny.

_To: Kenny: dude you wanna smoke a bowl tonight_

_From: Kenny: nah man boobie's sick im with her _

"Boobie" is the nickname bestowed upon Bebe when she had the misfortune of developing a rack faster than any other girls in their grade. The guys had called her the epithet all throughout middle school and the first semester or so of high school, thinking themselves clever beyond belief. Kenny is the last man standing on the Boobie Stevens front – from time to time that's what he calls her when he's talking to other dudes, and that's her name in his phone. To be fair, Kenny is labeled as "Kenny McCordick" in hers.

And Bebe's always fucking getting sick. She's kind of a hypochondriac, and for whatever reason, Kenny caters to her every fucking time she thinks that she's sick.

About an hour before closing time, they've had exactly two customers – a passing trucker and Sheila Broflovski, the latter of whose drink Craig made certain was perfect, because even he can admit to being mildly terrified of Kyle's mom. Mr. Tweak pats Craig on the shoulder (without asking first, which irritates the hell out of Craig) and leaves him the keys, claiming that he "doesn't want to drive home through this mess of a snowstorm." The so-called "mess of a snowstorm" is about an inch's dusting of powdery snow, the most non-threatening "storm" to ever grace South Park. But Craig suspects that Mr. Tweak wants to do exactly the same thing that Craig wishes he was doing: smoking a bowl and passing the fuck out. Or reading or book or something. The Tweaks had loads of books cluttering their house.

Just as Craig has procured the mop and broom from the backroom, the bell fastened to the door tinkles.

Fuck, he _hates_ those last stragglers that pop in like fifteen minutes before they close.

"Hey."

Craig turns.

Tweek scuffs his work boot on the tile floor. He says, "I'm sorry for trying to kiss you and shit." Unlike most of the time, Tweek's apology sounds sincere.

Craig shrugs, "It wasn't a big deal, man." Ike was the problem. Ike is always a problem, and Craig is under the impression that Ike takes some sick joy out of being that way.

Plethora of medications or not, Tweek is actually kind of attractive, in a strange, otherworldly way. He looks a little like an elf from Lord of the Rings, if their hair was messy, their noses were long, and they wore sketchy-ass trench coats that smelled like weed and baked goods and were filled with meds. He doesn't think he'd mind kissing Tweek, if only to say that once, he kissed a guy that vaguely resembled an elf.

Craig suddenly feels slower and stupider, like he might say the wrong thing. It's a ridiculous notion, and he doesn't know why the fuck he feels that way. He tears his gaze from Tweek's wide eyes and stares down at the broom in his hands instead, beginning the closing time sweeping ritual. He clears his throat and mumbles at the tiles, "I don't think I'd actually give a shit. You know, if you kissed me. Or something."

"Really?"

Craig doesn't look at Tweek when he answers, "Sure. Whatever."

"Okay," Tweek says, "Then let's kiss."

Craig doesn't know why he didn't expect Tweek to be so willing. He's been around this new, bolder Tweek for almost a month now. Tweek says and does exactly whatever the fuck he wants, and that doesn't help the sinking feeling in Craig's gut that tells him that he's attracted to this nutcase.

"I know I'm kinda batshit," Tweek says, taking tiny steps forward, like Craig is a scared animal, "But I'm a pretty fucking good kisser. Or so they say."

"Who the fuck is 'they'?"

"Lots of people," answers Tweek.

"Bullshit," argues Craig, setting aside the broom.

"Why don't you prove them wrong then, asshole?" Tweek dares. He's close now, close enough that Craig can smell the Tic Tacs on his breath.

And then, when Craig doesn't react, he hears the faintest sound, a continuous _click click click click click_, right against Tweek's teeth.

"You little _shithead_," Craig marvels, before he reaches up, grabs two handfuls of Tweek's blond hair, and yanks him down. Their lips smash together. At first, it's too angular, and Craig's nose is too big and Tweek's nose is too long, clipping them together. Craig curses – an opportunity that Tweek promptly uses to stick his tongue between Craig's lips. He tastes good, _damn _good, like those orange Tic Tacs he's always dumping in his mouth. Craig is abruptly aware that he probably tastes like stale coffee and the Hot Pocket that he made in the shitty microwave for dinner.

Tweek's hands find their way to Craig's face, pulling him in tighter.

This is only a second before Tweek breaks the kiss off, hands still cupping Craig's jaw. His ears perk up like a gazelle on the Serengeti, and he turns to look behind them, into their dark, snowy and _abandoned_ surroundings. He whispers, "There are too many windows."

"What."

"I don't want them watching us," Tweek explains, while managing to explain exactly nothing.

"Okay," reasons Craig, because his heart is beating faster and he doesn't actually want this kiss to stop happening, "Then let's go in the backroom."

Which is how Craig ends up pinned trickily to the shelves of cups and lids. They knock over several stacks of cups when Tweek hefts Craig's legs up around his waist and kisses him again, harder. He pulls back to stare at Craig with his saucer-sized eyes, and commands, "Pull my hair again. Like you did out there."

Craig reaches up and grips a tuft, guiding Tweek's lips back to his. Tweek resists, and shakes his head. He says, "No, like you did before. Like when we beat the shit out of each other."

"You weren't fucking kidding about that turning you on, were you," Craig asks. He'd kind of thought that Tweek just enjoyed fucking with his mind, not that he really meant what he was saying.

Tweek shakes his head a second time and ducks in, pushing his lips up against Craig's neck. Craig gasps quietly before he can help it. Nobody's ever actually bothered giving him a hickey, he's assumed up until this point because most people find him either repulsive or too violent to approach. Tweek doesn't care that Craig is a dick, and he doesn't care that Craig mostly forgets to shower. Tweek bites down _hard _on Craig's throat.

Craig smacks the side of Tweek's head, "_Ow_. What the fuck, Tweek."

Tweek frowns. He says, "You know, turning you on would be a lot easier if you just told me what the fuck turns you on. Jesus, I'm just saying man, it's fucking logic."

"Fuck your logic," Craig retorts.

Craig watches as the metaphorical light bulb hovering above Tweek's head switches on. "You don't know, do you?" Tweek questions, then repeating, "You don't know what turns you on."

Craig's face heats up. No, he actually doesn't. He hasn't had enough practice to figure out his kinks, and he's been too lazy to try and research it through porn or masturbation. He just hasn't given enough of a shit, but somehow, Tweek manages to make him feel embarrassed about the predicament.

"Hey, it's okay," Tweek reassures him, "I'll figure them out."

They don't talk, after that. Tweek plunges back in to lock their lips. He slides his tongue in after a few lingering touches of his lips to Craig's, and runs his tongue ring over the roof of Craig's mouth in soft, sure strokes.

Then Tweek starts making a _noise. _It's tiny, a keening whimper at the back of his throat. What catches Craig's attention, however, is the bodily reaction that accompanies the noises.

Tweek is hard.

The revelation sparks a reaction of Craig's own. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to make too much noise when Tweek readjusts their position against the shelves, grinding their pelvises against each other. Craig throws his head back at the friction, knocking his skull against the metal shelves, and bringing down more fucking paper cups onto the tiled floor.

"Ow, shit," complains Craig.

Fuck. Fuck, he's really making an idiot of himself. He turns his head when Tweek tries for another kiss. He needs to breathe. He hasn't kissed anybody since he was like, twelve. Craig doesn't know how to kiss, and he doesn't want to humiliate himself by admitting to Tweek that he needs somebody to help.

Craig doesn't have an overabundance of material to judge from, but Tweek is a damn good kisser. Is he just a natural, or some shit like that? Or did Tweek pick up technique from someplace? Is it something you can google? Of course it is, Craig, he tells himself. You can google anything.

Tweek lets Craig down after a few sprawling moments of silence.

"Well, that was fun," Tweek tells him.

Craig's first instinct is to acidly quip about the experience not being fucking fun, until the realization that he did, in fact, have fun, slams into him like a freight train. And to Craig's relief, Tweek doesn't look at Craig like he expects him to nod and agree about how much fun it was to get humped into a metal shelving unit by a heavily medicated elf in a trench coat.

"You want a ride home?" asks Tweek.

"You can drive?"

"I'm not supposed to," Tweek shrugs.

Craig pauses before he agrees, "Okay."

After cleanup and closing, the car ride to Craig's house is just about the single most terrifying experience of Craig's life. Tweek is a fucking maniac with a lead foot. The ride is only a few minutes long, and yet, when they jolt to a stop at the curb in front of the Tucker house, Craig pats himself down, surprised that he's alive.

"Uh," he says, feeling as though he should say a goodbye, "Drive safe."

Tweek winks instead of answering, which Craig takes as his cue to roll his eyes and exit the vehicle. He watches Tweek drive away before ducking into his house.

Before either of his parents can interrogate him about his whereabouts for the last twenty-four hours, Craig trudges up to bedroom. It's only there that Craig realizes just how exhausted he is, all the way through. He has so much shit on his mind – at least he did his homework like a normal kid.

Tweek. Fucking Tweek. Craig has no idea what's up with that kid.

He pauses on that thought, and after combing through his mind, he remembers only one of the labels on the orange bottles Tweek carries in the pockets of his trench coat. He pulls his laptop, an ancient hunk of technology, onto his legs and props himself up with his pillow. After a few painful seconds of loading, the Google homepage appears on the screen.

Craig types in 'rispridon' into the search engine.

_Did You Mean: __risperidone_

Judging it to be about right, Craig clicks the link.

_Risperidone (brand name: Risperdal) is used to treat the symptoms of schizophrenia._

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my marvelous reviewers: feet in jam mmmm, lilykinz200, MariePierre, Wendlekins, prettyoddrydonfan, Kuutamolla, KirstenTheDestroyer, Bubbl3wrapguy, w0rmsign, TheAwesome15, mallorymichael, Porn Mercenary, cupcakeattack, and 3MEEM3.**

**You guys are fabulous!**

**Questions/comments/suggestions? Hit me up. **


	7. The Chemistry's Correct

**Chapter Track: Spiderwebs – No Doubt**

On Thursday morning, Bebe honks in front of Craig's house. He's asked her to start picking him up regularly like she does with Kenny. The bus is too uncomfortable with Clyde and Token there, usually with Clyde greeting Craig every morning with a hopeful 'hello' like they're still best friends.

Craig wishes that they were still best friends.

Ultimately, that's the worst of his issues with Clyde and Token. He can't forget their company, and it makes him feel sick with his own stupidity whenever he remembers the good times. He thinks it'll help if he doesn't see their faces, if he doesn't hear their conversations about the action movie they saw at the theatre, or if Clyde is finally going to ask Sally if she wants to go on a date with him. Craig wants to do those things too, and he wants to know if Clyde's shit works out (as well it should, because Clyde is a damn good guy and deserves somebody that loves him as much as he loves other people).

Craig figures that if he stops hearing them discuss all the fun shenanigans that they're getting into without him, he won't feel like he's missing anything by not being there, too.

Craig climbs into Bebe's car. She and Kenny aren't nearly as chatty as usual. Kenny is slouched down into the passenger's seat with his arms crossed over his chest. He's using his tongue to play with his lip piercings, fidgeting like he has too much on his mind. Craig scoffs at the idea. Kenny doesn't think of anything but fun – it's in his nature as a pleasure-seeker.

"Aren't we a lively fucking bunch this morning," complains Bebe. She isn't as bubbly as usual either.

Probably some lover's quarrel.

To fill the silence on the short drive to the school, Bebe flips on the radio.

"_In an interview yesterday morning, Park county police stated that they are increasing their patrol at night, the time at which the vandal is suspected of being at large. 'We will find him, and he will be arrested,' said the Chief of Police. This has all been sparked by one particular depiction of – "_

"Ugh," Bebe expresses, changing the station, "I love how they assume that the art is by a man. Typical bullshit."

"It is by a dude," Craig points out. Only he, Kenny and Bebe know that Tweek is the artist behind the colorful transformation of South Park, from boring brick walls to 3D surreal art. Tweek should be thanking his lucky fucking stars that the cops around here are incompetent as all hell, otherwise they'd be smart enough to look at the obvious answer glaring in their faces. Weird kid in a trench coat comes home, obscene zines and street art appear. Craig guesses that the particular painting that struck this sudden outrage is the very colorful, very large painting of a talking penis that ended up on the front of the grocery store. Kenny thinks it's hilarious. Craig thinks Tweek is going to get caught.

Bebe rolls her glitter-smeared eyes and says, "It makes me want to join in on the fun, just to throw them off."

"Me too," Kenny puts in.

"You guys are fucking stupid," Craig tells them, "You're gonna get yourselves arrested."

"Whatever, they'll probably come after you, too," Kenny says, "I swear to God, everybody thinks that if you've got metal on your face that you're a delinquent."

"We are delinquents," Craig responds.

"I'm not," Bebe retorts, which is actually true. Bebe is a good student in disguise.

When they've parked the car, Craig rolls out first, wishing that he was still back in bed. It's been cold as hell for most of this week, and he's tired of having to leave the comfort of being wrapped up in his toasty blankets and blasted with cool air the moment he wills himself to step out. He grunts at the icy breeze blowing through his clothes, and tucks his hands into the pockets of his blue hoodie after zipping it up as far as it can go.

Tweek is waiting for them in their usual space in the corner of the cafeteria. He winks at Craig as he sits down. Craig rolls his eyes in response. They kiss. A lot. They kiss everywhere – in the backroom at Tweak Bros, while tromping through the woods before the sun goes down, at school, in the bathrooms.

Tweek has copped a feel a couple of times.

Craig is considering trading groping privileges for information.

He swears, his mind has been clouded by nothing but Tweek. How he tastes like Tic Tacs, how Craig can hear his pills banging around in their plastic orange bottles when Tweek walks, his art – God, his art is everywhere. It's all over the fucking town.

And Craig knows what Tweek's tag says. He'd asked, before he googled risperidone, and Tweek refused to say ("It's not my problem if you can't read it, you illiterate asshole."). He saw it as soon as he put two and two together.

_Schizo._

Tweek tags the epithet under all his paintings, and it's on the back of his zines – _Schizo. _

"The cops are looking for you," Craig mentions absently.

"What! Why?" Tweek exclaims.

"Your art," Bebe supplies, sliding in on Tweek's other side.

Kenny sits across from them all and comments, "The town took particular offense to the giant painting of a dick on their grocery store. But don't worry, dude, they're dumb as fuck. You'll be fine."

Craig hasn't asked Tweek about schizophrenia, no matter the burning desire to demand information that builds up in his gut every time he thinks about it. In fact, he hasn't been so fucking curious about something – he pauses to think about it – _ever_. He doesn't think that Tweek would take to his questions kindly. As open as Tweek is about sex and drugs and how he meditates, he shuts down when he's asked about the last year and a half, or if he's okay, or if somebody (namely Eric Cartman) refers to him as 'crazy.' He cuts himself off, going silent and stony-faced, like even bamboo under the fingernails won't get him to tell.

Thus, Craig continues on through his days as though he knows absolutely nothing, pretending that he hasn't been up until two in the morning sifting through Google and trying to find out exactly what having schizophrenia would mean.

Initially, Craig was under the impression that schizophrenia means that Tweek has multiple personalities. Upon further investigation across the reaches of the internet, he discovered that he isn't the only one mistaken on that front. Schizophrenia is different, though, like way different. And there are different kinds of it, too. Craig doesn't know which is affecting Tweek, but he seems okay for taking meds for such a serious-sounding illness.

God, he wants to ask about it.

Before class, Tweek tugs Craig into one of the side hallways, smashing their lips together. Craig has learned to stop being surprised every time that he is kissed by Tweek, and instead melts into it. Today, Tweek smells like cheap patchouli incense and skin. He fucking loves that smell. He could roll around in it for days – it makes him randy like he's never felt for another person before.

They do not, however, take their affection any further than kissing when they're at school. Both having experienced the misfortune of getting a boner in school, they agreed to tone it down until after school is out. Tweek ducks down to suck on Craig's neck. They've discovered a happy medium in the strength of Tweek's bite, and Craig finds that having his neck kissed like this turns him on like crazy.

They part ways a short thirty seconds before the bells rings, and Craig skids into American History just in the nick of time, taking his seat and catching his breath. Clyde stares after him, more intensely than usual. Craig wonders if something happened, until Red, who sits directly behind him giggles and remarks, "Nice hickey, Craig."

Craig's hand shoots up to feel along his neck before he can stop it, sending the entire class into quiet chuckling. His neck is still a little sticky, and he still smells like Tweek.

Craig holds his middle finger up behind him, sinks lower into his chair, and remembers why he hates everybody. Garrison passes back last week's test. Craig knows that Garrison has found his when he spots the top paper covered in red marks. He didn't study like he should have, he knows that. But he figures that he's got at least a solid D in the bag.

It isn't a D.

It's an F.

A _giant _F.

Two out of fucking fifty? How is Craig stupid enough to get a two out of fifty?

At the top of the packet, there's a message circled in blotchy red pen: _Come see me after class._

And so he does, after everybody else has, because there's no easy way to escape this particular classroom without being noticed. Garrison has his desk arranged right beside the only door in and out of the room, probably to prevent students exactly like Craig from making a quick getaway. Craig takes his own sweet time before sauntering to the front of the room, placing his books and papers neatly into his backpack one by one.

When he finally stands in front of Garrison's desk, he acknowledges that he's supposed to be there with a mere, "What." He isn't in the mood to be polite, not that Mr. Garrison expects politeness out of his students anyway.

"Craig, you're not as stupid as you pretend to be," he had said, "What the fuck is goin' on here?"

Craig doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that. He isn't the brightest crayon in the box, and he knows it. Other than that, he has a lot on his mind. His dad. His job. Tweek. Definitely Tweek. Maybe Craig could have passed if he'd stayed up until two in the morning researching the Articles of the Confederation instead of schizophrenia.

Craig shrugs, "I dunno."

"As much as it pains me to say this, you're not dumb," Garrison goes on, "I just don't want to see you waste your life pretending that you are. Now fuck off."

Craig turns away, not sure of what to make of his teacher's apparently concern. Outside, the hallway is a flurry of people and paper. A _lot_ of paper. Craig squints at the ground and picks a bit of it up.

It's Tweek's motherfucking zine.

Jesus.

This kid really gets a kick out of pissing authority figures off. The cover has _Are You Mental? #2 _splashed across the front. On the cover, he's drawn a detailed piece of art depicting, much like the grocery store fiasco, a happy penis.

"For fuck's sake," Craig mutters, but he folds the issue in half and pockets it so he'll have something actually interesting to read in English class – for once.

Craig settles into his seat beside Tweek, who's looking a little more smug than usual. He's laying it on a little thick with the innocence today. He has a Lisa Frank notebook in front of him, with two different colored pens (orange and purple) lined up neatly beside it. When Craig gives him a look, he bats his eyelashes like he knows nothing about what's going on.

Mrs. Babcock begins to take attendance a second after the bell rings, but is interrupted by the shoddy intercom system. The microphone screeches through the static noise, making every student groan. Tweek holds his hands over his ears until they get it under control.

"_Excuse us for the interruption,_" comes Mr. Mackey's voice, "_but this is second time that our school has been littered with smut, mmkay? This is unacceptable. Any students found carrying the…piece of literature called _Are You Mental? _will be suspended for the rest of the school day. This is not acceptable in a public school, mmkay?_ _We don't tolerate this kind of obscenity in this school. We have health class for a reason. Any students with information regarding the author of _Are You Mental?_ should come forward immediately. Park County High School has rules for a reason, students._"

The intercom shuts off.

Tweek clicks his piercing against his teeth, his lips closed into a tight line. He isn't doing it to annoy Craig – he's doing it because he's annoyed. Craig wonders if he should show his support in some way. Tweek is sort of his friend, at least a friend that he makes out with and lets feel him up sometimes. Craig doesn't know how to comfort people with words, though.

So instead, he removes his copy of _Are You Mental?_ from the left pocket of his hoodie, and opens it up right there in front of him, cover-penis be damned.

"Craig Tucker!" exclaims Mrs. Babcock.

"What. It's good. Fuck Mr. Mackey," Craig says, lifting the zine up further so that the rest of the class can see, "There's useful fucking information in here."

"Craig!" Mrs. Babcock says again.

He stands up, swinging his backpack onto his shoulders, "Yeah, I know. Heading to the office now, ma'am," but before he leaves, he holds up _Are You Mental? _again and tells the rest of the English class, "Fuck the school. Read it."

Craig doesn't go to the principal's office. Instead, he lights a cigarette and walks home against the wind. Most of his limbs are numb by the time that he lets himself in through the front door. He wishes that he had something better to do than to be here. Being at home always reminds him how boring he actually is, and he doesn't like it. Craig doesn't ever feel like doing anything kinesthetic or dynamic. He likes sitting in front of the television and watching Red Racer repeats that he has locked on their DVR, maybe while he pirates entire discographies of his favorite bands. And he can only manage the latter on a good day. Most of the time he just wants to curl up under his blankets and sleep forever.

He can't sleep today, though. He knows if he falls asleep now that he won't wake up until it's midnight or later, and he needs to work. The Tweaks keep him on a pretty busy schedule, he thinks perhaps because they've rediscovered 'alone time' now that they have a suitable distraction for their son.

When Mrs. Tweak drops Tweek at the coffee shop after school, Tweek asks what happened at the office. Craig relays his boring day of snacking of his couch instead of doing what he said he would, at least until Tweek diverges into a furious rant about the zombies running Park County high and how they'd like to stop him, but they won't. He rolls off into an impassioned speech about the importance of comprehensive sex education and how schools will teach you how to be safe if you're straight, but not if you're a part of the LGBTQ community.

The night ends with them making out in the backroom again. Tweek sticks his hand up Craig's shirt and strokes his chest while they kiss. Craig is too embarrassed to admit that he likes it, so he just kisses Tweek harder and hopes that his lips will relay the message.

Craig goes to bed when he gets home from work, exhausted without having a reason to be. He swaddles himself in his blankets like burrito, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He wakes on Friday morning to Bebe honking her car horn. Craig rolls out of bed and dresses himself with barely-opened eyes. When he slouches into the backseat, seeing Bebe in one of her snappy, punky outfits has Craig realizing what a fucking disaster he is. He hardly knows how to dress himself in the morning, let alone well. His day to day clothing is mostly crappy, ill-fitting jeans that his mother buys him sometimes, or t-shirts collected from various summer camps and events and places that he's been to.

Craig sleeps on the way to school. If Bebe hadn't shaken him awake when she removed her messenger bag from underneath his feet, he thinks that they would have forgotten about him and let him sleep in Bebe's car all day.

Kenny and Craig share a cigarette before venturing in. The hallways are strangely empty for this time of day, and when they wander to sit in their place in the cafeteria, Tweek is grinning to himself over a sketchbook. He pulls his oversized headphones off of his ears when he spots them approaching, letting them sit around his neck. Craig tries to scoot in close enough to hear what's coming through the headphones, but comes up tragically short when Tweek reaches into his pocket and pauses the song on his droid.

"Where is everybody?" asks Kenny.

Tweek chuckles.

Bebe nudges Tweek with her shoulder and asks, "What did you do?"

"You'll see," is Tweek's cryptic answer.

And they do see. Craig and Kenny share a locker, to which they walk to together.

Which is where the rest of the school is. Not at their locker specifically, but at the long stretch of blue lockers between the doors to two different classrooms, where Tweek has pulled his most batshit stunt yet. In pink paint, the words "Are You Mental?" splay across the lockers, right above a veritable orgy of contraceptives wearing varying expressions of delight. Sprinkled throughout the excited-looking birth control pills and condoms, there's other random shit that Craig knows _nothing_ about beyond occasionally seeing a box belonging to his sister in the bathroom cabinet – God, he can't even think it without blushing, _feminine hygiene products. _And since Tweek lacks a sister, Craig really wants to know how the fuck he even knows what they look like.

"Is that condom wearing a sexy red dress?" Bebe asks, where she stands on the other side of Kenny.

"Oh my god. It's like Bananas in Pajamas, but with tampons," Kenny says.

Tweek is grinning down at Craig when he glances back at the culprit.

"Holy _shit,_" is all that Craig can finally manage, because he doesn't know whether to be impressed or grossed out.

Tweek's grin widens.

There's another announcement over the intercom when everything settles and students realize that they still have to go to class, even if somebody painted a contraceptive party on their lockers. The classroom buzzes with excited whispers of "Shit, dude, did you see it?" and "Maybe I should read that thing." Craig feels a little proud that he knows the artist, and he isn't sure whether he's proud of himself or proud of Tweek. The stir it's created is almost funny to him. No, it is funny to him. Craig doesn't even bother much with sex, and he _still_ wonders what the big deal is about what Tweek painted. It just (minus the tampons, pads, and something Bebe informed them was called a 'diva cup,' all of which Craig thinks Tweek painted just to stir up a little more trouble) portrays stuff for safe sex. In theory, the school should be okay with the image itself. Being pissed at the vandalism, he gets that. But people seem to believe that the image is the controversy.

He doesn't get it.

But then, Craig doesn't understand people. Mostly because he hates them.

Craig ducks into the bathroom after first period, hoping he can get away with smoking half a cigarette in one of the stalls without anybody noticing. He's stopped in his tracks, however, when he sees Clyde, sharpie in hand, writing on the wall. He's writing right where Craig saw a new and even less clever adage – "Craig Tucker, Dick Sucker," whose purpose to probably humiliate Craig made him only wish that his last name was Orange, because nothing rhymes with it.

So Clyde is the one that's been writing them.

He wants to say that he doesn't give a shit, because if there's anybody that Craig deserves shit from, it's Clyde. He just…never expected it. He swallows the lump in his throat and looks down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. Jesus. Fuck. A pinprick of a hole starts to open up in his heart, erasing the amusement and pride that he'd had swinging in his gut from Tweek's earlier trick. He bites his lip, and sucks in a rattling breath. Clyde turns at the sound, the blood draining out of his face when he sees Craig.

"Hey Craig," he greets, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"I guess I deserve it," Craig says. Accidentally. He meant to think it.

"What?" Clyde cocks his head like a confused puppy.

Craig crosses the bathroom to snatch the sharpie out of Clyde's hand. He doesn't know why. Maybe to contribute to Craig Tucker graffiti, except that he can't think of anything cleverer than "Craig Tucker is an angry fucker," and so he ends up feeling stupid, wishing he was witty enough to insult himself in rhyme.

When Craig turns to the tile, he sees the same maxim as yesterday – Craig Tucker Dick Sucker.

Except that it's been scribbled out. The "Dick Sucker" part, anyway. It now reads "Craig Tucker is awesome, fuck you."

Craig's hands fall to his sides. He doesn't know how to react, beyond belatedly giving Clyde his sharpie back. After a hard stare at the tile and the new words on it, Craig lets out a long, confused breath. He does not understand this at all, not even a little bit.

Jesus, he misses his best friend.

Craig turns around and starts to walk away.

Clyde grabs his arm, tugging Craig back to face him by the sleeve of his ratty hoodie. Tears spring out of his eyes. He has always been a crier, something that Craig could never understand. Craig's dad never liked it when he cried when he was little. He's always shout at him that he needed to man up, needed to grow a set, that real men don't cry. Crying is for pussies.

Once, when the Donovans drove Craig home in their minivan, they played a tape called Free to be You and Me, and there was a song on it called It's Alright to Cry. It was the first time that Craig had ever heard that, but Clyde grew up knowing that his tears were acceptable. Right before they hit puberty, Craig remembers Clyde confiding in him that sometimes he feels better if he just cries. Craig doesn't understand that, either. And he doesn't remember the last time that he cried.

Clyde rubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his Park County High hoodie. It's an awful puke green color. A year ago, Craig would have laughed at it and teased Clyde whenever he wore it. Now Craig just feels like an asshole.

Clyde sniffles a little and asked, "Why can't we hang out anymore? I forgive you for what happened – my parents said that you said you were sorry –"

Craig tears his arm out of Clyde's grip and mutters, "Because I'm just gonna fucking hurt you again, you idiot. I'm a shithead, okay. Fuck off. It's for your own good."

Craig makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder before he marches out. Clyde's hand is still extended toward him, like he needs to reach out and pull him back. He looks as though he's trying to work out something to say back, the cogs spinning furiously in his head.

Craig walks away before Clyde gets the words out.

**o.o.o.o**

It isn't that they _like_ Cartman. Cartman, much like his height, seems to have grown exponentially in the "being an asshole" department. Kenny likes to think of going to Cartman's football games with Stan and Kyle as a time of camaraderie with his best friends. Not because their friend-but-not-friend is there on the field, playing. Cartman is easy to spot. He isn't as much of a butterball as he was when they were kids. He's more like a wall of flesh, not slim by any means, but not unhealthy. He picked up playing football the summer after fifth grade, judging it to be worth his time based solely upon the fact that he could fuck other guys up without landing in legal trouble. Kenny likes the surprising logic behind Cartman's decision – he's perpetually pissed off, so why not channel it into something like being the MVP of your high school's football team?

Kenny wishes that Craig followed that same school of thought, but he doesn't want to bring it up for two reasons: For fear of getting his face punched in, and because he doesn't want to send Craig reeling into a depressed spiral of self-loathing. Or, rather, further into said spiral.

It's fucking cold as tits out in the stands, and as is custom, Kenny is the one about to freeze his nuts off. Stan is bundled into an outdated brown leather jacket that belonged to Randy sometime in the eighties, his knit hat pulled down over the tops of his ears. Beside him, Kyle is stretched out in an orange sport coat (Bebe tends to call Kyle a "fashion victim," whatever that means, and Kenny suspects that his current attire would fall under the criteria earning him that name). The bastard has a fucking Chipotle burrito in one hand, as though Kenny needed another thing to be envious of. His stomach growls in appreciation at the sight, and he wishes that it hadn't.

"You wanna bite, dude?" Kyle asks, extending the fat burrito in its shiny foil wrapping across Stan's lap and within Kenny's reach.

"No. Fuck off," snips Kenny. Instead, he pulls his lighter out of the pocket of his mostly-destroyed sleeveless hoodie. He removes the cigarette he's been keeping behind his ear and lights it. Stan and Kyle exchange a look, and the only thing keeping him from snapping at them again is the inhale of nicotine that he takes into his lungs.

"You okay, man?" Stan asks, giving him that trademark puppy-eyed look of earnest concern, the look that annoys Kenny and also makes him feel like a cock for being short with his best friends.

And he can't keep anything from them anyway, so he just says it.

"It's Bebe," he admits.

Stan assumes a look of knowing, while Kyle takes another bite out of his burrito – in concern, Kenny is certain.

"She's like, grotesquely ill," Kenny says, "and she won't let me come near her. It's pissing me off."

"Grotesquely?" Stan repeats, as though he doesn't believe that Kenny could know a word with more than two syllables.

Kenny tries not to roll his eyes as he takes another drag off of the end of his cigarette. He waves it in a vague gesture and says, "She thinks she's contagious or something."

"That sounds perfectly reasonable," Kyle says after he's swallowed a mouthful of what Kenny is certain is delicious beans and salsa and meat. His stomach agrees with the assumption, growling again. Kyle's brows lift and he looks Kenny up and down before asking, "Are you sure you don't want some of this?"

"Ah, fuck it," Kenny says. He orders shortly at Stan 'hold this' and places his cigarette in his hands. He grabs the burrito and takes the biggest bite he can manage, before passing it back to Kyle. To hell with pride, anyway. He's hungry and exhausted and absolutely _fucking_ sex-starved. It has been an entire week of this bullshit with Bebe. A _week_ without sex, or watching late night episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with her, or falling asleep in a soft bed against an even softer body. He swears that he is going fucking insane, if he isn't there already.

Kenny retrieves his cigarette, feeling a little better after the burrito, and sucks in more smoke. He goes on, "It's not like her. She's sick all the time. She doesn't give a damn if she gets me sick, just like we don't give a damn if it's that time of the month and there's a bit of blood to –"

"Whoa!" Kyle exclaims, holding up his burrito like a shield, "No."

"Dude, quit being a melvin about periods," Kenny says, mostly just to piss Kyle off some more, "Stan's with me, right?"

"Right," Stan says, sounding entirely unconvincing.

"Oh, my god. I am surrounded by pussies," complains Kenny, "Anyway, I haven't had sex in a week. I think I'm dying."

"You and Bebe aren't a thing, dude," Stan pointedly says, "Lola has a thing for you. And so does Butters, if you're into that. Why don't you fuck one of them?"

Kenny sours at the mention of him and Bebe not being a "thing." They are too a fucking thing. They're having consistent sex with each other. That's a thing. Plus she lets him and Karen raid her pantry and crash at her house. That's a thing.

"Just because we don't put some dumb fucking label on it doesn't mean it's not a thing," Kenny insists. He isn't even sure why he does. Maybe it's because he gets the feeling that his friends are expressing a misguided form of concern over his less-than-traditional activities with Bebe. It's not a customary relationship, and yeah, it started out as a business deal, but she's his friend now. Most of the time, she'd be sitting up in the stands with him and Kyle and Stan. Wendy, too, but she's missing in action and Kenny suspects that Wendy is where he would like to be – with Bebe.

"Shit. You really like her," Stan remarks.

Kenny feels his face heat up, and he does not like it one bit. He shakes his head and responds, "No, dude. You've got it all wrong. We're friends. Friends that have sex. Sex friends. She's like one of you two, except she's attractive and I'm banging her."

Two identical glowers grace his best friends' faces at this remark. Kyle looks like he wants to argue, but Stan kicks him before he can even open his mouth.

Absently, Stan says, "I think you're making this a big deal, dude."

Kenny doesn't argue with that. It feels like a big deal. That's what it is. But Stan and Kyle don't understand that. Kyle is perpetually married to his grades, and Stan has his on-again off-again thing with Wendy. They're inconsistent. Kenny and Bebe are always simply Kenny and Bebe, the ones that are always having sex and never worrying about any namby-pamby feelings bullshit. They don't complicate things.

"You're just pissed that she isn't paying attention to you," Kyle comments.

Kenny refuses to dignify that with a response. They drop the subject completely after a few minutes of silently watching the game. At halftime, Stan gets up to go to the bathroom and comes back with an armful of cheap concession stand food, most of which he gives to Kenny, smiling that boyish, puppy dog smile that would make Kenny feel like an asshole if he didn't take what is being offered to him.

After a landslide victory in favor of the Park County High School Cows, the three of them trek back to the school and wait for Cartman outside of the locker room. He emerges reeking of sweat and Tag body spray. He marches over to them with a grin and excitedly mentions, still running on adrenaline, "Did you see me get that guy during the fourth quarter? I think I broke his fucking wrist! Oh, man, it was fucking brilliant."

Cartman continues an enthusiastic buzz of conversation, even out into the parking lot. He blabs about shit that Kenny wasn't even paying attention to. Still, he has to admit that he likes Cartman best after he's won a football game. Cartman is at his happiest when he's kicked some ass, and it's the only time that he and Kyle aren't at each other's throats.

Cartman pulls their walk to a halt and stops speaking only to say, "Bitch alert."

A few feet away, Wendy and Bebe are talking. Wendy is wearing her winter coat over pajama pants patterned in cupcakes. She looks worn down, but Bebe looks worse. She wears her favorite red faux-leather jacket, but it's over a t-shirt and the black yoga pants that Kenny likes when she wears to bed, because he likes running his feet over the smooth fabric. Her hair is tied up on top of her head, and she isn't wearing any makeup. He thinks she's hot no matter what she wears, but Bebe's style is to always look like she put 110% into her appearance. She likes being sparkly and flamboyant. Now, she looks reserved.

And Kenny knows that they weren't at the game, so what the fuck are they doing here now?

"Don't call my girlfriend a bitch, you fucking dickwad," complains Stan, loudly enough that Wendy will hear.

Kenny pushes past Stan and Kyle. Bebe gives him a weary smile when he skids to a stop in front of her and, being as smooth as he is, gives her a soft, "Hey."

"Hey," she says back. They shuffle awkwardly in front of each other until Kenny decides that he's had enough, and kisses her, contagiousness be damned. She tastes like that Burt's Bees shit she's always putting on her lips after lipstick hours have passed. The taste alone can almost make him hard, but he pulls himself together and tugs his face back before he has the urge to get tongue involved.

"You feeling better?" he asks.

"Not really," Bebe admits, "But, um, could you come over?"

Relief sweeps over Kenny like a typhoon. He says, "Yeah. You came all the way out here for that? Could've texted me and I'd still have come."

Bebe forces a smile to this. Kenny's gut twists up into an uneasy knot. He glances back at their onlookers, who are all pretending to be less interested than they are, and pushes another kiss against her lips before saying, "Let's go."

"Wait, what about Wendy?" Kenny asks, but Bebe is already guiding him to her car.

She explains, "She said she'd hitch a ride back with Stan."

"Okay," Kenny says stupidly. He supposes that they can't fuck if Wendy's around. Even if Wendy were okay with it, he doesn't like the idea. He'd feel like he was being watched. But he won't take this any further than kissing, anyway, until he knows what the hell has been up. He's confused, and kind of wounded. He doesn't like it. He's used to feeling like the one that always knows what to do, which sounds arrogant, even in his head.

While they drive, Kenny reaches up to touch her hair, but Bebe smacks his hand back and says, "Don't touch me. Not right now. I'm driving."

Kenny slumps back into his seat. He fiddles with the radio and starts playing with his lip rings, pouting. Fuck, he's never dealt with something like this before. He doesn't think that he's done anything wrong, but he could be wrong. Typically, though, Kenny is conscious of being a dick. He's never a dick to Bebe, except _maybe_ when they argue, which has happened a grand total of twice.

At last, when he trails behind her to the front door of the Stevens house, he blurts, "Did I do something wrong?"

Bebe stops. She lays a hand right below his shoulder and gives him a pleading look, saying carefully, "Honey – Kenny. Can we wait until we're inside, please?"

So he quiets until their feet are on the threshold, and says, "_Now_?"

"We should sit down first," Bebe says. She pulls her feet out of her tiny little flats, nudging them into a neat pair by the door.

Because Kenny is puzzled and becoming more and more pissed off, he reverts back to what he always tends to do when he's upset – he makes a dirty joke. He grins wolfishly and remarks, "Sweetheart, as long as I've got a face, you've got a place to sit." And he sticks his tongue out between his fingers, because she's being cryptic and he's feeling obnoxious.

"Kenny," Bebe chides. She sounds exasperated, so Kenny sits down on the couch beside her, because now he feels like a dick, even though he doesn't think he has an actual reason to feel that way. He starts fucking around with his piercings again, prodding at them with his tongue, and tapping his feet.

Bebe doesn't look him in the eyes when she speaks again. Her voice has gone so quiet that he has to lean in to hear her. She talks to her hands, where they're folded tightly in her lap. She says, "I – um. I need to talk to you about something."

"Okay," Kenny agrees, because he'd figured as much already.

Then she's crying.

"Oh, fuck," he says, "Are you alright?" He scoots over, and wonders if this is even about him. Maybe Bebe just needs a friend.

"I'm, um. I'm pregnant," she says. She laughs through her tears, bitterly, like she's the punchline of a bad joke.

Kenny blinks. Did he hear her correctly?

"Er," is his reaction, nothing but a mixed-up noise. Bebe looks him full in the face now, her brown eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He clears his throat and asks, "What?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

Bebe is pregnant. And she's telling him because…he's the one that got her into this shit?

"Am I the –"

Before he can say 'father,' Bebe nods silently and confesses, "I haven't been sleeping with anybody else for the past few months. Like, they just bored me? But I don't get it. We've always been safe, haven't we? What did we do?"

Crap. Memory floods back into Kenny.

"I, um, shit. Fuck. Crap. Shit, sweetheart, I'm really sorry," Kenny stammers out, "It was like, a couple months ago? I thought the condom might have broken but I didn't say anything 'cause I didn't want to freak out, and, um. Fuck. Damn it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"What the fuck, Kenny? I could have gotten Plan B, I could have fucking – Nevermind. I just thought you should know."

"What are you gonna do?" he asks. His throat is dry, so dry that it feels like he's guzzled down a glass of sand. He could use some water, but he doesn't want to walk away from Bebe, because she's crying and he fucked up and – God, fuck. He's scared. He is actually scared. That doesn't happen too much. It's hard to get to him, and that's because he's seen a lot of shit. He's been through way more than a guy should have gone through at seventeen.

Holy shit, they're only seventeen. He also doesn't have any money, only the money he makes from occasionally dealing for his brother, and sometimes selling cigarettes to Craig.

Bebe doesn't answer immediately, and so Kenny bursts out, "Whatever you choose, I'll be here! Like, I'm not just some washed-up asshole, okay. I promise."

Bebe studies him for a long moment. He takes the opportunity to lean forward and push back some of the crocodile tears lingering on her faintly freckled cheeks with his thumbs. His heart is beating out of control and his mind has firmly switched into overdrive. He's reeling. He doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to say, but he hope that what he already has said is the right thing. Is there even a right thing to say? Fuck.

Fuck. He needs Stan and Kyle. They have their respective shit together. He thought he did, too, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Kenny thinks that they'd know what to do. Kyle would, at least. He has the logical response for any situation that doesn't involve Cartman. He always knows what to do.

"Do you mean that?" Bebe asks him.

"You know I do, dude," he says, blushing when 'dude' slips out, "Fuck. I mean, you know what I mean. I told Stan and Kyle that you're like them to me, except that you're gorgeous and that we're fucking. So, this is kind of like if I knocked up Kyle. Just so you know. I wouldn't ditch him, and I'll be here for you. Or something like that." He feels his face heat up, because he knows what he's saying sounds fucking stupid and not in the least bit eloquent. He also doesn't know why he chose Kyle to compare her to. Shit, he hopes she doesn't take that the wrong way. He meant it as a compliment.

Bebe kisses him to shut him up, and Kenny kisses back, pulling her into him with his hands tangled up in the curls escaping from her sloppy updo. Internally, he's panicking, but when he tastes her tongue, he is relieved to remember that at least he isn't alone.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you as always to my fantastic reviewers: MariePierre, theyellowsky, lilykinz200, prettyoddrydonfan, Kuutamolla, KeiMaxwell, KirstenTheDestroyer, sephyroth19, w0rmsign, TheAwesome15, FlyAwayMax, WizerdBeards, and mallorymichael.**

**A special thank you to FunnyHats and Oneirogenic for making me absolutely stunning art!**

**ALSO HERE IS ANOTHER WARNING. Remember that warning on the first chapter? The one that said 'abortion'? Yeah, that didn't change. If that is going to bother you, stop here. Do not pass 'Go' and do not collect two hundred dollars. **


	8. Soar Right Through It

**Chapter Track: Green Eyes – Wavves**

****TW: Abuse**

In one key aspect, Craig differs from his peers. It isn't that he often forgets to shower, it isn't that he tends to solve problems with his fists, and it isn't because he got high that one time when he was sixteen and let Kenny McCormick stick some metal through his nose. Those are all commonalities between many teenagers, or so he figures – at least the ones with metal in their faces. If you have a piercing, you probably got it done by one of the McCormick brothers.

No, what makes Craig stand out is that he would be a happy man if he never had to go on holiday breaks. He wishes that he could stay in school forever. It makes for an easy excuse to avoid his family.

As it happens, the job at Tweak Bros has proven to be a godsend for precisely that reason. Craig coped with fall break by begging for extra hours at work and cloistering himself there until after closing time, and not only because he and Tweek have started making out in the backroom on a daily basis. Unfortunately, no matter how hard Craig pleaded, Mr. Tweak refused to let Craig work Thanksgiving Day past noon, when the store closed up for the holiday.

And thus, Craig now has no reasonable excuse to miss out on Thanksgiving dinner. He's a terrible actor, and so he doubts that he'd be able to get out of the occasion by faking sick unless he could figure out how to vomit his kidneys onto the dining room table. He's stuck eating boxed stuffing with microwavable vegetables and fried turkey with three of his least favorite people on the planet. At least his parents don't have relatives that live in Colorado. Otherwise Thanksgiving would be as miserable as Tucker family reunions are.

Tweek can tell he's irritable. Not that it's hard – Craig has snapped at him three times already today and told him to go home and help his mom make the wheat rolls and cranberry salad that he keeps raving about. Tweek seems to enjoy Thanksgiving, and that pisses Craig off to no end. He's struggling with not being an all-out dick to Tweek, but he's sandwiched in a rage limbo between anger at his incessant chatter and jealousy that he looks forward to the holidays, while Craig takes them like a vampire to holy water (A Buffy vampire, mind. The ugly, disgusting, gross kind).

Still, at the end of his shift, Craig forces himself to be in a better mood. He wants to walk Tweek home and maybe get a kiss in, because for whatever reason, kissing somebody makes Craig feel that much less alone. Tweek is a damn good kisser, too, not that Craig has a basis for comparison.

It's irritatingly sunny today – the kind of sunny where there's not a cloud in the sky, and the light glares off of everything. Even though it's cold outside, it feels too warm, and Craig ends up slinging his hoodie over his shoulder and walks alongside Tweek in nothing but a Nirvana t-shirt and his jeans, which are full of holes. Though it's incorrectly buttoned, Tweek keeps his trench coat on. He must be sweltering in that thing – Craig doesn't get it. But then, maybe he doesn't want to lose any of his medication.

_Schizo._

_Schizo._

_Schizo._

The tag is everywhere now. Every inch of South Park is covered it Tweek's tag and Tweek's art and Tweek's zine. _Schizo_ litters the boys restrooms at Park County High, all in that angular squished lettering that Craig thinks is impossible to read unless you already know what it says. And just like the artwork, the zine has started to be passed like illicit substances from student to student. The school officials are oblivious, of course. They think that the threat of punishment is viable, when it merely makes Tweek's work all the more interesting.

"Hey, Tweek," Craig says absently.

"Hey, Craig," mocks Tweek. He reaches inside his trench coat and takes out what looks like a red, metallic pen and sucks on the end, which turns blue on his inhale. He exhales a cloud of powdery-smelling smoke into Craig's face.

Craig waves his hand in front of his face and coughs a little, asking, "What the fuck is that?"

Tweek frowns at it and sighs, "A fucking electronic cigarette. My mom won't buy me real ones anymore because these are cheaper and 'better for me.'" Tweek puts air quotes around 'better for me' like it's an absurd notion that a mother would want to look after the health of her son.

"Your _mother_ bought your cigarettes?" Craig's brows lift underneath the edge of his knit hat.

"She'd rather feed my addiction than watch me go off the rails," Tweek says casually, but Craig has to wonder exactly what Tweek's brand of "going off the rails" is. He goes on, staring at the device in his hand, and pouts a little, "It's so fucking fruity looking. Why can't I smoke regular cigarettes like a normal-ass human being?"

"Anyway," Craig scratches the back of his neck and says, feeling less confident than he did before, "Um. Could I like, um, come over. After dinner."

"Why?" Tweek asks, face blank again. He blows more sweet-smelling smoke out before pocketing the electronic cigarette back in the inside of his trench coat. He wipes a hand across his sweating brow.

Craig frowns at the sidewalk, fiddling with the half-smoked pack of his own cigarettes that's shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans. Tweek already know that Craig hates his family, or at least he's aware of the discontent among them. He claims that Craig's house gives off "bad energy," but Craig thinks in that case that Tweek is making a wild guess or trying to get a rise out of him – he can't decide which.

But Craig wants to make sure that there's someplace he can go to if he needs an out tonight. Thanksgivings at the Tucker household rarely go well. He used to slip out right after the meal and head to Clyde's. The fight that ended their friendship came right before last year's Thanksgiving, the most miserable Thanksgiving that Craig had ever had in his life. He hadn't really started hanging out with anybody new. Bebe and Kenny weren't in the picture, and even now he doesn't trust either of them enough to be a safe place to go after another desolate family event. Not that there seems to be much 'family' in it.

Craig spent last year being very, very drunk. After it was all over, he dragged himself upstairs to his bedroom and pulled his blankets up over his head. He slept for nearly fifteen hours, and didn't uncurl himself out of his covers even once he was awake. He laid there for hours with music blaring in his ears, wishing that he could run to the Donovans and hide there, even though Clyde's wired jaw was only a couple weeks old and the entirety of South Park thought Craig was a menace to society. They still do, but at least Clyde isn't walking proof of Craig's failure as a human being anymore.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter – any time that Craig has to sit through a meal with his family, he gets that way. He'll barricade himself in his room because it's quiet there. It's safe there. They can shout at him through the door, but that's easily fixed with headphones in the ears and loud-ass metal.

He doesn't know quite yet if he can trust Tweek with the same job as he gave Clyde, to let Craig be open and wounded at their feet. Tweek is already different because Craig has never felt the inclination to kiss Clyde, and he already feels tempted to go beyond just that with Tweek. He isn't used to the feeling of wanting to be physical with another person. Craig never thinks they're worth his time.

Tweek is different. He doesn't know why Tweek is different, but he is.

"I, um," Craig begins his explanation ineloquently, wondering if he should tell-all about his shitty folks or just go with the basics. Basics, he decides, and he clears his throat before going on, "my folks just kind of suck cock. Fuck. I just need somewhere to be, I guess?" Craig doesn't want to say _I need a friend_, even though that's exactly what he means with his sloppy words.

Tweek gazes at Craig for a long time. His big eyes make the experience eerie, like a black hole has opened up inside Craig's chest. It's just a look. He's just studying him. But Craig doesn't like it, and so he glances down at the concrete as they walk, watching his Vans march one in front of the other, and realizing the fabric is ripping up on the right shoe.

"Yeah. Okay," agrees Tweek, "I'll tell my parents you're coming over. You wanna crash, or just hang out for awhile?"

"Crash," replies Craig.

Craig feels a little sick when he realizes that he and Tweek are standing in front of the Tweak house, with the dead rosebushes and strange sculptures and ugly paint. It isn't the most picturesque house, but Craig decides that he likes it better than his own. Outside, the Tucker house is painted an average color with a trimmed lawn, even though it's about to be winter. It looks like the perfect suburban home, even though everybody inside hates each other. Tweek's is a wreck, but Craig has never come across a more close-knit group of oddballs.

It makes him feel stupid and lonely and empty. He doesn't like it. He's not supposed to give a shit about families, because his family doesn't give a shit about him.

"Jesus, you're all emo today," Tweek remarks. He reaches out and touches Craig's arm.

Craig shrugs him off at first, but a few seconds later, he wraps his arms around Tweek's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. He tastes funny, maybe like that electronic cigarette, and sort of like his Tic Tacs. They're in the middle of a neighborhood where anybody could see, but Craig doesn't give a shit. He feels less crappy when he kisses Tweek, and he doesn't care who knows about it.

"What the fuck?" Tweek expresses, when Craig pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "You never kiss me first."

"I did just then, you dumb fucker," Craig quips back.

Tweek sticks out his tongue and screws up his face. He complains, "Back to being a total asswipe, I see."

"Never stopped, shithead."

"Twat."

"Cocksucker."

"True," agrees Tweek.

"Huh," manages Craig. His face heats up when he realizes what Tweek just said, and he stares down at his shoes.

Tweek reaches forward and plays with the tassels coming down from Craig's hat, absently, like a cat. He says, "I gotta go. But I guess I'll see you tonight, assface." It's affectionate, and makes the corners of Craig's mouth lift just barely before he can stop it.

"Yeah. See you, shit-for-brains," nods Craig. They part ways, and Craig takes the longest route to his house that he can, making each step painfully slow, stopping to kick pebbles with the rubber toes of his shoes. He smokes three cigarettes, hoping that the nicotine will give him a little peace of mind before he's thrown into the lion's den.

Craig has to steel himself at the door, inhaling and massaging his temples, before he enters his house. It already smells like watery, overcooked food. There are cheesy decorations decking the dining room, handmade pilgrim dolls that may have belonged to one of his grandmothers and paper turkey confetti, but it doesn't make the place feel any homier.

"Craig, where have you _been_?" his mother demands, when she notices him standing in the entry way. She looks like she tried to dress up a little, with her graying blond hair up in one of those plastic clips, and she's wearing her church clothes. She likes to pretend that they're Norman Rockwell family on holidays. He doesn't know why she gives a shit, but maybe the act is keeping her sane. He can't blame her for wanting a little sanity in her life. She walks over in plain black shoes and inspects him, scowling when she catches a whiff of cigarette smoke, "You reek. I told you I don't fucking like you smoking. Where are they?"

"Smoked them all," he says, which isn't true.

She rolls her eyes and reaches forward, patting down the pockets of his jeans, and coming up with the mostly empty package of Marlboros and Craig's lighter. She pockets them both, glaring at him, and says, "Apparently you're a liar _and_ a smoker. Go help your father in the kitchen. He needs to talk to you." Craig stares after her, wondering if she's going to be smoking those cigarettes out on the back porch after this terrible holiday comes to close.

"Mom –" he finds himself protesting. Being around his mother and Ruby sucks, yeah, but he'd rather be anywhere else than with his father.

"Craig, I don't want your shitty excuses," she says. When he sighs dramatically and flips her off, she lifts her middle finger in return.

Nothing like a Tucker family Thanksgiving. He rolls his eyes when she turns away, and mimes shooting himself in the head with his fingers, before he trudges into the kitchen.

His dad isn't working on any of the food. He stands in the center of the room, arms crossed over his massive chest. It's his 'you're about to get a talking-to' stance. Craig knows it well. He hates the way that he lets himself get when he sees that posture. He shrinks and readies himself for a stream of 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and 'I'm sorry, sir.' Ruby doesn't get treated like this. Sometimes, it feels like they shower her in praise for the smallest accomplishments while Craig is left out in the dust regardless of what he manages to achieve. When he was little, he used to pick fights just so his mom and dad would give him the fucking time of day.

Token always thought that Craig was being melodramatic, that it's not possible for parents to favor one sibling so obviously. That Craig was just being a drama queen. Clyde never thought that. Clyde always believed him, always invited him over to so that Craig could be with a real family. Naturally, Craig had to fuck that all up by beating the shit out of Clyde and ensuring that he has almost no place to go.

At least he's got Tweek. Tweek is really weird and occasionally creepy, but his lips are soft and he treats Craig like he's a human being.

"Stuart says you and his boy have been hanging out with that freaky little Tweak faggot," Thomas says. His tone is casual, like he's talking about the morning paper, but Craig knows better than to be deceived.

"No, sir," Craig lies.

"Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you, you little shit," Thomas' voice is already getting louder.

Craig slumps into himself more before he lifts his head. Every muscle in his body feels tense when he looks at his father. Thomas Tucker is a big man. He played football for Park County High back in his long-gone glory days, the days that he sometimes waxes poetic about when he's had one too many beers and feels insignificant. He's intimidating. He knows that he is, and he uses it to his advantage, glowering down at Craig like he's a cockroach.

"The boys down at the bar say they've seen you fucking going around town kissing that fag. You a fag, too?"

He's fucked, now. His dad isn't going to listen to what he says. He goes deaf when Craig does something he doesn't like, like picking a fight at school or kissing a boy. Any defense that Craig concocts is irrelevant.

"No, sir," he lies again. He reaches up and pulls down on the strings of his hat, but it's already down as far over his head as it can go. Craig doesn't like that. If he were a turtle, his hat would be his shell. He can hide in it no matter where he goes.

Craig closes his eyes when he knows it's going to happen. His dad grips him by his arms, shoving him back against the kitchen counter. It hurts – it hurts a lot. His ribs bounce against the corner of the laminate, knocking the wind and any will to fight out of him.

Craig isn't short, but he's skinny. His dad has the advantage in both stature and weight, and the only time that Craig ever fought back is when he ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and fractured ribs. If he cooperates, he makes it out with bruises. Bruises heal faster, and they're easier to hide – and he'll always fucking hide it, because it's humiliating on a level that he doesn't want to think about.

"They laughed at me at the bar," Thomas tells him, his big hands still clamped around Craig's arms. Craig dangerously close to the stove, and the sweat that formed on his brow out of fear starts to run faster. When Thomas leans down closer to Craig, he can smell that he's already imbibed Thanksgiving spirits. His dad isn't terrible about his drinking, but alcohol does make him meaner, nastier and scarier. He goes on, his grip so tight around Craig's arms that tears start to form in the corners of his eyes, "Who the fuck wants a fag for a son?"

Craig thinks that this one is a rhetorical question, but Thomas flips Craig to stare into his eyes, bending his spine over the counter and lifting his feet off of the floor. His dad's face turns purple and he demands, "Well? 'Cause if you're a faggot, you can get the fuck out this house."

Craig would love to leave this house, but if he did, he and his guinea pigs would have no place to go. So he answers, "No sir, I'm not."

"You're not what?" spittle flies from Thomas' mouth and into Craig's face. It _hurts_ where he's jammed up against the kitchen counter. Craig feels his eyes water at the sensation, and Thomas shouts, "You're gonna fucking cry? Really? You're going to cry, like the little fag you are?"

"I'm not!" Craig yells back, louder than he intended, and wishing he was anywhere but here.

His dad twists his arm back, and Craig stops being able to breathe right. He closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to have to see this nightmare happening again. He wishes that he was at school. He wishes that he was at work. He wishes he was fucked up with Kenny and Bebe and Ike, or that he was at a strange tea party with Tweek. He wishes he was at Clyde's, playing video games and laughing like they used to.

He wishes he was anywhere but here.

"You're not _what_, you little fucker?"

He punches Craig, then. Right in the gut, so it's hard to speak and even harder to breathe.

"I'm not a – not a –" Craig's mouth feels dirty even before he struggles to finish his sentence, but he just wants his dad to let him go before it comes to any more blows, "– not a fag."

He dares to open his eyes. Thomas is still staring down at him like he's the scum of the earth. He's breathing onto Craig heavily through his nostrils like a bull. When their eyes meet, he finally lets Craig go. Craig crashes immediately to the ground. He can't get up, at first. He can feel bruises forming and he can't breathe right.

"Get the fuck up off of my floor," commands his father.

Craig reaches up and grips the edge of the counter, shakily obeying. He strides from the kitchen, trembling all over and hugging himself. His sister stares after him from her place on the couch, where she's watching some surfing movie. She turns away only a moment later, turning up the volume on the television.

When he passes his mother on the way up the stairs, she stops him with a single hand and points back toward the dining room, "I need you to go set the table."

"Why can't Ruby do it," he flatly asks.

She frowns at him and chides, "Craig. This is not an argument. Do it, now."

It's always like this. His mom and his sister seem to know what's happening, but they block it out. They put on blinders and pretend that Craig and Thomas have been nothing but the height of normality. Craig doesn't know how they can fucking _ignore_ something like this, ignore the handful of hospital trips that have happened over the years, or the shouting, or the calls from the school nurse (Craig stopped seeing her after it seemed she started to catch on. He didn't like the looks she gave him, like he was a kicked puppy that needed a hug).

Craig lays out the dishes carefully. His arms and gut are sore. He feels like he might throw up, but instead, he shakes so much that he drops one of the plates. It clatters onto the worn-out hardwood and breaks into three fat pieces. If he were Clyde, he'd break down sobbing. But he isn't Clyde, and so when his dad hears the crash and pulls Craig up by his hair, spitting at him to pick up the mess, he does it dry-eyed.

When they sit down together, they even look a little normal. His mom makes Craig take off his hat, and so he sets it in his lap, where he can grab onto it if he needs something to hold. They say a prayer that Craig refuses to close with an 'amen' about being thankful for family and the dinner provided for them, because this family and this dinner are two of the worst things that have ever come into his life. He doesn't know what kind of God would put him into a family like this one.

He doesn't have an appetite, and still feels as though he might vomit if he tries to get any food down. He uses a fine art that he's perfected over the years – moving the food around on his plate and making it look like some of it has been eaten. Ruby launches into a detailed description of how she attained a B on her Chemistry test, and how all her grades are in a perfect, well-rounded range. Their parents seem to eye Craig as she speaks, as though telling him that he should be more like his sister. They've said it before.

Craig finds himself thinking of Tweek. Their Thanksgiving is probably a lot better than the Tucker family Thanksgiving. He imagines them having strange but endearing traditions, and actually meaning it when they say that they're thankful for family.

When it's all over, Thomas plops down in front of the television to watch some stupid sitcom. Craig does the dishes without being asked, because he knows if he moves toward his bedroom that they'll say the magic words. When he's sliding Tupperware containers of leftovers into the fridge, he grabs the bag of baby carrots from the vegetable drawer to feed to his guinea pigs.

Craig holds his boys for awhile, giving them the carrots one by one. He whispers, "Happy Thanksgiving, boys," and hopes that their meal is better than his. When Craig judges it to be dark enough outside to make his escape, he replaces Zim and Gir in their cage and pulls on his hoodie. He wishes he had a cigarette, and realizes that he can't bum any from Tweek anymore. He'll have to fork over more cash to Kenny. Craig shimmies out of his window and down the drain pipe, landing with a thump in their brown lawn.

Craig briefly considers turning in the opposite direction of the Tweak house and walking toward the high way, instead. He thinks of hitchhiking and running away to anywhere but here. But as soon as the desire to run for his life strikes him, he remembers getting stranded in Utah that one time, and the havoc he caused.

Craig shakes his head and tromps off toward the Tweaks', thinking about how nice it sounds be kissed right now, instead of rolling down a deserted highway next to a truck driver with a braided goatee. When he knocks on their door, Mr. Tweak answers. He smiles and ushers Craig into the house, which smells of home-cooked food and incense.

"How was your Thanksgiving, Craig?" asks Mr. Tweak, smiling pleasantly.

Craig offers a forced smile back and says, "It was good. Lots of…food."

Tweek comes down the stairs only after his mother runs up to announce Craig's arrival. He isn't wearing his trench coat. He's wearing plaid pajamas and an undershirt. He's not at as skinny as he was when Craig last saw him without that big, ugly coat. Before Tweek vanished, he looked practically emaciated. Now he's got meat on his bones.

He looks kind of…edible. Maybe that's only because Craig hasn't eaten since breakfast, but he's inclined to think that it's because Tweek is actually pretty. Craig feels a tug of attraction start nagging in his gut. When Tweek lays eyes on him, he offers up a smile.

Tweek inclines his head up the stairs with a wolfish grin and Craig follows after he pulls off his shoes and sets them near the door.

Tweek's bedroom isn't at all like Craig expected it to be. It's exactly as messy as the rest of his house, but it's more masculine than he would have thought. The walls are dark green, or maybe they once were – it looks like Tweek has painted over most of the space, and then painted over his own paintings. His laptop is open on his bed, and frozen on a sketchy porn video. Craig lifts his brows and shakes his head. Tweek chuckles and closes the laptop.

"Ugh, don't tell me that you're into that Pony shit too," Craig says, wrinkling his nose at the cartoon pony sticker stuck to the computer.

Tweek sticks out his tongue and says, "You know you're not a special snowflake for disliking something just because it's popular, right? Friendship is Magic is fun. And it's cool that so many people are into something feminine. I think it's neat. So, suck my dick. Or something."

As soon as Tweek moves the laptop, Craig flops onto his bed, not bothering to ask for permission. Tweek doesn't seem to mind, though. He just gruffly orders Craig to move over and crawls up beside him, close enough that his lion's mane of hair tickles Craig's face, and he pushes Tweek away.

"You look like shit," says Tweek.

"I'm pretty beat," Craig responds, giving a light shrug.

"I'm gonna kiss you," Tweek informs him, seconds before he dips his head forward and pushes their lips together. His mouth is soft and warm. Craig fucking loves his mouth.

They coil their arms around each other as Craig opens his mouth and Tweek licks his way inside, teasing Craig's tongue with his piercing. A shudder rolls through Craig's sore body. He feels the tension being siphoned from him bit by tiny bit, like Tweek is draining it out of him with kisses and casting it away. Tweek moves his mouth to suck on Craig's neck, and Craig tentatively noses at Tweek's, not sure if he'd be any good at giving hickeys like Tweek does to him.

Tweek unzips Craig's hoodie and throws it off of him, pushing his hands up Craig's t-shirt. He smooths his thumbs over Craig's nipples, which he's been doing a lot lately, like he wants something more.

As if on cue, Tweek breathes, "I want to take your shirt off."

Craig nods dumbly without thinking. When he remembers his bruises, it's already too late – Tweek has pulled the shirt over his head and thrown it to the floor to join Craig's hoodie.

"What the shit happened to you?" Tweek demands, his brows crunching together at the sight of the bruises on Craig's chest. Their on his arms, too, in the distinct shape of thick fingers. Craig prays that Tweek at least doesn't notice those ones.

He answers, "Fell off my bike again."

"I thought your bike broke," responds Tweek.

"I got a new wheel," Craig answers. This is mostly true, but since his parents refuse to transport him to a shop, he had to order it online, and he'll have to fix it himself. It hasn't come in the mail yet. Craig doesn't think it'll be that hard to repair his baby. He knows bikes. He just hasn't fixed one by himself before.

Tweek gives Craig a vaguely suspicious look, but seems distracted by his state of shirtlessness, kissing down from Craig's throat, to his collarbone, and down to his nipples, where Tweek teases his tongue ring against them.

An involuntary noise comes out of Craig, a moan. Tweek's eyes flicker up to Craig, and he stares directly into him as he moves his tongue again, skimming the metal ball over the sensitive parts of Craig's skin.

Tweek reaches down to the fly of Craig's jeans. The tips of his fingers ghost over it as he kisses Craig's chest with contented little noises. He pulls off for a moment, tucking a lock of his blond hair behind his ear, and announces, "I'm gonna touch you, okay."

"Okay," Craig rasps, because he really wants it. He didn't know how much he wanted it until Tweek said those magic words.

Tweek unbuttons Craig's jeans and drags the zipper down, working them and Craig's boxers down low enough to gently pull his erection out into the open. Craig wonders if he should be embarrassed. His cock is red and leaking precome, even though they were only really kissing. He moans a little at the sensation of Tweek's fingers handling him, the touch surprisingly ginger. He leans his face up and kisses Craig's forehead like he's tucking him into bed rather than touching his dick.

Tweek's grip is firm and practiced. Craig curls into Tweek's neck and kisses it tentatively while Tweek's hand works him. He still isn't sure if he knows how to give hickeys, but he experiments, giving Tweek's skin a timid lick. He teases a whimper out of Tweek. The sound makes him feel confident enough to close his lips over a patch of Tweek's pale skin, sucking a little, and scraping with his teeth.

He loses focus when the flick of Tweek's wrist below works him even more, even faster. Nobody's ever touched him like this and made him feel this good, even when Craig touches himself. Maybe Kenny felt good when he blew Craig, but he was too fucked up to remember much. Now, he's one hundred percent sober and he _wants_ to remember this happening.

Tweek's hands and lips on him feel so fucking good.

He comes with a cry that he muffles with Tweek's hair. Tweek kisses him on the lips, which are swollen, now, because Craig has been chewing on them. Tweek reaches over and retrieves a tissue, mopping up Craig's come and tossing the tissue behind them without looking to see where it landed.

They breathe together for several minutes before they move. When they do shift, Craig tucks himself back into his underwear and rebuttons his jeans. Tweek curves around him, and it takes Craig a moment before he realizes what they're doing. They are spooning. That mythical thing that people in relationships always talk about loving to do with each other. Only, Craig doesn't think that he's in a relationship with Tweek.

They're both relaxed, melting into each other. Craig hasn't seen Tweek like this much. Maybe he's more comfortable at home. Maybe he likes it best when he's tucked into his bed, like Craig likes it best when he's folded into his covers on a Saturday morning and doesn't have to emerge until he damn well pleases.

"Tweek," Craig nudges back with his elbow.

"Fuck off, we're sleeping," Tweek tells him.

"I've been wondering something," Craig goes on anyway.

"I'm not talking about where I went," Tweek warns him, speaking into the back of Craig's neck. He licks him there, pointedly running his piercing up along the vertebrae. He's trying to distract him.

"Did you have to leave because of your schizophrenia?" Craig blurts this out, louder than he meant to, but the words almost got stuck in his throat. He had to push them out to finally ask the question burning on his mind.

Tweek instantly pulls away from Craig. He pushes Craig onto his back and cages him in with his arms and legs, eyes narrowed. He demands, "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I googled risperidone," Craig says, "and your tag says _Schizo_, by the way, stupid. Unless you're like, using the word 'schizo' to mean something else. Which. You know. Seems kind of douchey if you don't have it."

"Fuck you," Tweek says, "I'm reclaiming it."

"So you do have it," Craig says quietly. He reaches over to touch Tweek's shoulder, but Tweek slaps his hand away.

"Who have you told?" Tweek angrily asks.

"Nobody," Craig answers.

"Bullshit. Who the fuck did you tell?" Tweek looks furious. His face turns pink. When he lifts his hand, Craig is certain that he's about to be punched, and he flinches back into the pillow, squeezing his eyes closed. The punch never comes, though.

When Craig dares to look, Tweek is rubbing at his eyes, looking as though he's trying not to cry. He says tightly, "I didn't want anybody to find out. Everybody already thinks I'm a freak. I don't need my life being fucked up any more than it already fucking is, Craig. I'm so fucked up. My brain is shit. It does what it wants. And I believe what it tells me because it's my _fucking brain_."

"I don't think you're a freak," Craig says. He's telling the truth. Weird, sure. Odd, definitely. But not a freak. Eric Cartman is a freak. Mr. Garrison is a freak. Craig's dad is a freak. But Tweek, he's just different. He's a little strange, but he means well. Craig has never thought otherwise, unless he knows that Tweek is trying to annoy him on purpose – and he only does _that_ when he wants attention from Craig. Wanting attention is normal.

"You're so full of shit," Tweek insists. His voice sounds a little broken.

"I'm not," Craig assures him, "Lie back down with me, you big baby."

"I'm not a baby," argues Tweek, but he does lower off of his hands and knees, collapsing into the pillow beside Craig.

Neither of them speak for several seconds. Tweek is still flushed and looks upset. Craig nudges Tweek's leg with his socked foot and says, "So, you went away. Because of schizophrenia. Right?"

"Right," sighs Tweek, "You're not allowed to tell anybody, though. Or you're a big, giant, raging, veiny cock of a human."

Craig chuckles and answers, "Okay."

"I – I had a – well, I flipped shit, okay? And it kept happening. So I went to the hospital."

"For a year and a half," Craig says, not quite believing it.

"I kept having – um, episodes. So, like, it wasn't safe for me to be anyplace else," explains Tweek. He rolls onto his side and tugs Craig into his chest like Craig's a stuffed animal, and pulls off Craig's hat so he can start petting his hair.

"Did you get better?" queries Craig.

"Sort of," Tweek answers, "but really they just kicked me out 'cause I'm a giant slut. And because I kept writing on the walls. They didn't like that, either."

"What."

"I kept getting in trouble for fucking," clarifies Tweek, "You're not supposed to. But I like sex. It calms me down. It calmed down some of the other people in my ward, too. So we all had a lot of sex. I just kept getting caught. They took away the condoms my mom snuck in for me. And my crayons. Fucking sadists. I hated it there. I'm so happy to be home. I love it at home."

"Your mother brought you condoms. In the mental ward."

Tweek smiles wryly, "My parents are awesome. They don't make sex into this naughty thing, like most parents do. Most parents want you to stay a kid forever. Mine let me grow up."

Craig wants to admit how jealous he is. Instead, he keeps quiet for a little while, letting Tweek pet his greasy hair.

"I really don't think you're a freak," he says again.

Tweek shakes his head. He replies, "I _am_ a freak, Craig. But you are too. So it's cool."

**o.o.o.o**

**A great big thank you to my sensational reviewers: lilykinz200, WizerdBeards, NSRforevermore, w0rmsign, prettyoddrydonfan, mallorymichael, Starrydango, KirstenTheDestroyer, Chasing Rabbits, Kuutamolla, TheAwesome15, MariePierre, I-love-Awkward-silences, and Sunshine-aki. **

**A special thank you to my friend Queen LaStanley for suggesting the chapter track to me. I was going with the nineties theme for awhile, but this song is actually the If You're Bored Craig Tucker **_**Anthem. **_

**And a special thank you to KirstenTheDestroyer for another beautiful piece of fanart.**


	9. We're Happy and We're Lonesome

**Chapter Track: All Alone – Gorillaz **

Craig doesn't normally tune into the emotions of others. He doesn't understand people, not really. Other people seem to turn small things into huge ones, seem to freak out over things that Craig doesn't think anybody should give a damn about, like prom or whether or not there's going to be a pop quiz. He doesn't give a damn, and he cannot make the connection in his mind about why other people _do_ care.

But Kenny and Bebe are acting weird. He switches off his music to stare across the table at them, where Bebe has hardly touched the food she brought from home, and Kenny is slumped over her shoulder, mouth open and fast asleep. Bebe looks gaunt, like she fell asleep in her makeup from the day before and came to school without washing it off. It isn't like them. They're usually energetic and irritating and painfully attractive.

And Tweek has lunch detention for calling his Trig teacher an asshat.

Craig feels along the still-tender bruises on his arm, feeling morose and pissed off without reason. Or maybe the reason is because Kenny and Bebe have each other, and Craig doesn't have Tweek. He clung onto Tweek throughout the entire weekend. He knows he did. Tweek probably knows he did too. Craig won't admit it out loud, but it feels good to have somebody that wants him around again. And he likes the kissing. Now there's touching, too. He hasn't quite built up the courage to stick his hand in Tweek's pants like Tweek is so blasé about doing to him. Craig's never handled a dick sober. He isn't afraid, really. It's just that he doesn't want to fuck anything up.

Craig pokes at his factory-made school lunch. He hasn't been able to work up an appetite for a couple days now. Every time he thinks about eating, he remembers Thanksgiving and shudders, unwilling to touch food.

After a couple minutes of staring at the goopy food, Craig shakes his head and pushes aside the Styrofoam tray. He pulls the third issue of _Are You Mental? _from his pocket, flipping through the drawings and words without processing them. He turns to the back, where people have begun to write into Tweek's PO Box.

"_Dear Mental, my boyfriend is ready to have sex and I think I am too. The only problem is…"_

"_Dear Mental, sometimes I think that nobody sees me as a person, just a school machine…" _

Tweek responds to each question carefully, sounding a little strange – but then, Tweek _is_ a little strange – but also helpful. He details solutions, and they're only interesting to Craig because he includes bits and pieces from his own life.

"Hey," he hears from beside their table. Craig stuffs the zine back into his pocket before he realizes that it isn't a school security guard.

He swings his head, surprised to find _Token_ standing at the foot of the table, looking uncomfortable but determined. He's in much better shape than Craig is in, wearing a spotless oatmeal colored fleece and fashionably distressed jeans. Craig has no doubt that Token is going to appear in the yearbook as _Best Dressed. _He always looks like a million bucks, probably because has to spend about that much.

Craig, meanwhile, forgot to shower again and is wearing the same hoodie that he's had since he was thirteen, with holes in the cuffs that he sticks his thumbs through.

"What."

"May I talk to you?" Token asks carefully.

Craig doesn't like it. Even more than Clyde avoided him those first weeks after Craig broke his jaw, Token has made a point of expressing his disappointment. Not anger, not dislike, not disgust – disappointment. That's what he said after he dropped Craig off while Mr. Black drove Clyde to Hell's Pass that day. _I am so disappointed, Craig. _Like a disapproving parent – the functional kind, not the kind that Craig has. The worst of it is that Craig knows, like he knew then, that Token doesn't do bullshit. It's one of the reasons why Craig appreciates him so much. He's straightforward and succinct. He's not ramblingly passionate like Kyle Broflovski or emotional and ineloquent like Stan Marsh.

"I guess," Craig says, even though he's afraid to know what Token is going to say to him.

"In private?" Token cocks his head toward the back exit of the cafeteria, a mere few feet from Craig's table with Bebe and Kenny. He slides a glance over to them at that thought. Bebe blinks at Token and Craig curiously while she runs purple acrylic nails through Kenny's uncombed hair.

"Yeah. Okay," agrees Craig.

As he follows Token out into the much quieter hallway, he realizes that this must be able the Clyde incident in the bathroom. Fuck. He shouldn't have been as much of a dick as he had been, but he can't baby Clyde – if he does, Clyde will attach himself to the idea that their friendship still exists, which it does not.

Craig rocks on the balls of his feet and stares at the floor. He can feel Token's gaze on him, and he hates it. It makes him feel like he's little again, and his mom caught him getting into shit that he wasn't supposed to.

"Your jacket looks nice," mumbles Craig, because he's tired of uncomfortable silence.

"Thanks. It's Burberry," answers Token. As good a guy as he is, Token enjoys namedropping designer labels when he's complimented on his outfits. This time, it makes Craig smile a little. He misses hearing it, even if he does think that is a twat kind of a thing to do.

"What do you want?" Craig finally asks. This conversation makes him feel uncomfortable on a painful level, one on which his brain nosedives into reminiscing about movie nights and going to Clyde's lacrosse games with Token and the Donovans, after which they'd be taken out to pizza and spend the entire night together. Craig would show them card tricks he'd googled or bitch about his parents not letting him bike. Token and Clyde would talk about hot girls and Craig would pretend to be interested, thinking about how he didn't find anybody attractive.

Now Craig's Friday nights are not spent at lacrosse games, pizza parlors, and the Donovans living room. They're either spent alone in his room with his pipe and his guinea pigs, at work, or at the party of some kid he doesn't know, throwing up into the downstairs toilet.

"Clyde misses you," says Token, snapping Craig back to reality. The words are a slap on the face. Craig knows Clyde misses something, but it isn't Craig. He misses what Craig misses – the good times. Clyde is naïve.

"I know," responds Craig, "He told me. I told him that he's being stupid."

"I miss you too, dude," Token goes on.

Craig stares incredulously, "Why would you do something like that." His question comes out flat, like most of them do.

"Because you're my friend," Token says, "I'm talking to you because this is getting out of hand."

"Huh."

"This isn't fucking normal, Craig. You're a fucking mess, and I'm concerned, okay?" Token's lips turn down as he assesses Craig. At least he can't see the bruises, and the hickeys that spot the top of Craig's chest. Craig flexes his fingers – they're starting to itch. They do that sometimes, when he gets sad. They star to itch because his reflex is to pet one of his guinea pigs. Once, when he'd just woken up from a nightmare in Chemistry class, he started feeling around his table before he realized that his lab partner (Gary Harrison, the irritating prick) was looking at him funny, and that he didn't ever take his guinea pigs to school.

"Man, give it a rest," Craig says, "I'm a bad person. I get it. I don't need to have another discussion about it."

"You're fucking dense sometimes, Craig. Really fucking dense. You're not a bad person, which is the goddamn issue at hand. I don't know what's going on in that thick-ass head of yours, but I want you to get it together, alright? I miss you, Clyde misses you, and we want things to be right again."

Craig doesn't know what to say to this, and so he just stares. Anger bubbles up as usual, but he isn't angry at Token, he's angry at himself. He fucking get why they can't let this alone. The issue is closed. Craig attacked Clyde when they told him that he needed to get help.

"Okay," Craig states at last, not knowing what else he _should _say.

"Okay? Does that mean you'll talk to somebody?" asks Token.

"It means 'okay,'" responds Craig.

"You know, we don't care that you like guys," Token says, "Like, really not a big deal. At all."

"Yeah? Well, it's a big deal to me," says Craig. He turns around and pries open the back door to the cafeteria, plopping down in front of his now-cold lunch, making it even more unappetizing than it was before, and it began pretty damn gross. He wishes that he didn't like guys. It would make his life a whole hell of a lot easier. His dad thinks he's scum because of it, and the student body of Park County High won't fucking give it up. You do something a little bit different, veer a little off the beaten path, and suddenly, you're disgusting.

At the table, Kenny is awake again. When he catches Craig's eye, he asks, "What was that all about?"

"He and Clyde like to periodically remind me of how much of a shitsack I am," Craig grunts, "I'm gonna go out for a smoke. You wanna come?"

Kenny glances at Bebe with raised brows, and she shakes her head. He responds to Craig anyway, "Yeah. Let me get my cigarettes."

Kenny and Craig set up camp in the blind spot between two cameras. Craig eyes Kenny's cigarettes and says, "Can I bum one?"

"Did you invite me just to mooch cigarettes?" mumbles Kenny, his own cigarette bouncing between his lips as he lights it.

"Yes," says Craig. Kenny rolls his eyes, but passes Craig a cigarette and lights it for him before replacing his cigarettes and lighter in the pocket of his jeans.

"You alright, man?" asks Kenny, probably feeling obligated to make conversation.

"Yeah," lies Craig, "You okay?"

"Fuck no," Kenny laughs bitterly on a smoky exhale. He rolls up the long sleeve of his black shirt, revealing a round, puckered burn wound on the inside of his arm, near his elbow, "Kevin did that to me when I fell asleep on the couch yesterday. I've barely been able to fucking sleep as it is, and when I do, he puts his fucking cigarette out on my _arm_, like I'm a goddamn ashtray and not his little brother. I fucking hate my family."

"I'll smoke to that," Craig agrees, "I fucking hate this town."

"Amen, dude," Kenny agrees, "Amen."

Craig is glad to have someone with a family like his, even if Kenny does have a luxury of having a little sister that thinks the sun shines out his ass no matter what he does. Craig has Ruby, and Ruby doesn't give the faintest shit about him. They're alike in that respect, because Craig doesn't give the faintest shit about her, either.

This is the Kenny that Craig enjoys being around – moody realist Kenny, the one that realizes that they live in a shithole in the middle of nowhere with the worst people on the planet. Not chipper, happy-go-lucky, romantic Kenny. Craig can't stand when Kenny gets that way. Maybe it's cruel wanting somebody down on Craig's level, but at least if there's somebody just as knee-deep in shit as Craig is, he won't feel so fucking alone.

But when they return to the lunch table, Craig still sits with an empty spot beside him, and Kenny still leans down for a kiss from Bebe.

Craig loves being alone, but he hates being like this. He hates being lonely.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig snaps out of his sleep when he hears a noise. He cranes his neck from its place on his pillow, but sees nothing but his dark, messy bedroom, with no sounds but his shuffling guinea pigs. When Craig was a kid, he had the same idea as other kids – that he'd be safe if he was just tucked in under his covers. It wasn't for the same reason, though. Craig never believed in monsters. Even as a child, he was too logical for that.

Or maybe he did believe in monsters, but they weren't the kind with red eyes and claws and sharp teeth. Craig's monster wore – and still wears – unironed button-downs, outdated jeans marked by their slightly-too-high waists. He wears old, faded Super Bowl t-shirts and smells like cheap aftershave.

He lives across the hall.

Only when Craig was a child, his father beat the shit out of him for different reasons. For disobeying, mostly. Refusing to abide by his bedtime, refusing to share with his little sister, refusing to take a bath or take out the trash or do his homework that they knew he had because "We talked to your teacher, dumbass."

Now they hate him because he smokes and kisses guys. They hated when he didn't have a job, too. Called him useless. Told him if he wasn't going to bother with his schoolwork, he'd better make something else of himself, because they're not keeping him around a day past when he turns eighteen. That's good. It's fine, because Craig has planned since he was six years old to move out the instant that he could. He doesn't know where he's going to move, but he's still going to do it. He'll find a way.

There's a noise again. Something bangs against his window.

Craig rolls and flops into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes before he moves the plaid curtains aside.

It's snowing, just barely, and standing in the middle of his lawn is Tweek. He's bundled up more than usual, with a knit hat pushed on his head and a multicolored scarf wound around his neck. A canvas bag is slung over his shoulder, and a Cheshire-like grin lighting up his long face. He waves a gloved hand when he sees Craig's face.

Craig opens the window and leans out, whispering harshly, "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," Tweek says, as though that explains everything.

The words make Craig's chest feel a little sore. If anybody else were standing on his lawn, he'd give them the finger and tell them to fuck off. But he doesn't want to do that now. He feels his lips twitch, in the mostly unfamiliar sensation of wanting to smile.

Tweek goes on, "Come down here, assclown. And dress warmly."

Craig slips out of his bed as quietly as he can. He fumbles around in the dark, pulling on his threadbare Vans and heaviest coat. He pulls the covers off of his bed to find where his hat managed to slip off of his head, tugging it over his ears. He follows standard sneak-out procedure, ungracefully sliding down the drain pipe, and padding through the crunchy grass over to where Tweek stands.

"You're gonna get cold in your jammies, idiot," Tweek greets, gesturing to Craig's Batman pajamas.

Craig rolls his eyes and leans up, coiling his arms around Tweek's neck to bring him into a kiss. His mouth is warm and wet, and Craig liquefies into the kiss when Tweek strokes his piercing against Craig's tongue. God, he could stay like this forever. Craig doesn't know what's so appealing about being tucked up against a tall, big-eyed kid in a trench coat, but he does know that he likes it. He likes it a lot.

When they part, Craig yawns and rubs at his eyes. He asks, "What are you doing here, fuckface?" again, because as pleasant a surprise as it is, Craig is bewildered.

"I'm painting," Tweek says, "I want you to come with me."

"Why."

"So I don't get lonely," replies Tweek. And as simply as he knows the sentence was meant, it strikes Craig as profound. He nods his consent, and Tweek gives a crooked smile, before leaning down again and taking Craig's lips into a sloppy kiss.

They take off toward the small square of commercial buildings. Craig isn't certain there are any left for Tweek to cover in his art, though the county has started painting over some of the work, much to Tweek's dismay.

They stop at City Wok, slipping into the slim alley between the Chinese restaurant and a commercial building that a small biking company has rented out. It smells like piss and garbage. Craig wrinkles his nose and pulls out the new pack of cigarettes that he bought off of Kenny after school, hoping the scent of the smoke will mask the foul aroma of the alley. Tweek drops his canvas bag onto the ground with a clunk.

"I almost forgot," he says, and he pulls a metallic thermos out of one of the huge outside pockets of his trench coat, passing it to Craig, whose fingers are already going numb at the tips, "I made you some coffee."

Craig doesn't say thank you, but he does arrange his cigarette and thermos into one hand so that he can yank Tweek forward, pushing his handmade scarf down to kiss his neck, biting down hard enough to make Tweek whimper.

"What are you painting?" asks Craig. He hoists himself up to sit on top of one of the plastic, industrial-sized trashcans sitting in a row, watching Tweek while he paws through the canvas bag on the ground. He pulls out two spray paint cans, pocketing one and wielding the other.

"I dunno yet," he replies, and he sprays a curved line onto the bricks of City Wok's side wall.

"You don't know," Craig echoes. He takes a sip of his coffee, which is made thankfully the way that he likes it, plain black. He wonders if he should feel flattered that Tweek knows that.

Tweek glances back as he makes the line of black paint into an arch. His eyes flicker to Craig's cigarette, and he pauses to rummage in the inside pockets of his trench and remove the electronic cigarette that his mother bought for him. The end glows blue as he sucks in. He pushes it into a front pocket, and resumes painting.

Craig watches, mesmerized, as the lines become shapes, and shapes become things. He nurses his coffee and smokes silently, realizing that he's never seen Tweek paint before. He's seen him draw with his crayons, and doodle with gel pens in classes, but not this, not the obscene and gruesome paintings that litter every building in South Park, and still mark the lockers in the school – turns out that spray paint is a bitch to get off.

Tweek is painting monsters.

In his typical form, he paints them with missing eyes, digging in his canvas bag to pull out a can of red paint to make them bleed. But they're holding their eyes in their hands, the blood squishing between their claws. One is massive and square-shouldered, with a toothy grin and broad, hairy arms. Craig doesn't like it. It looks like nightmares he used to have, nightmares where his father was a monster just like these ones.

Maybe he is fucked up.

Maybe Token is right.

Maybe it isn't normal to see a painting of a gruesome, ugly monster and think of your dad coming for you with his meaty fists.

And it's not normal to beat the shit out of your best friend when he tells you that he's worried about you.

From time to time, Tweek pauses to drag off of his silly-looking cigarette before putting it back in the small breast pocket on his trench coat, or take a sip out of a second thermos that he had tucked in the opposite pocket as Craig's coffee.

Craig wonders if maybe he should talk to Tweek. He seemed to answer the people writing to his zine eloquently enough. Oddity aside, he knows his shit. He knows about sex and drugs and being sick in the head.

But then, Craig doesn't want to tell anybody about his dad. He doesn't want to be pitied. He doesn't want to be taken out of his house by CPS a mere handful of months before he turns eighteen anyway. He doesn't want to be separated from Zim and Gir. He doesn't want people to look at him the same way that Kenny did when he saw the bruises wrapped around Craig's arms. He hates that look, and he hates that Kenny held him in his arms and told him that he'd always be there for him.

Craig hates being reliant on others. Other people are full of mile-high bullshit. You can't trust them.

But he also doesn't know what to do. Because he thinks that something _is_ wrong, but Craig doesn't know how to fix it. He can't fix his dad, and he can't fix being angry.

Then it strikes him: He could write to _Are You Mental?_ anonymously. He could ask Tweek for advice without really asking him. Craig takes a celebratory drag of his second cigarette, flicking the butt into some soft snow buildup.

Tweek is spraying purple across the top now.

It says: _We will get you._

Craig doesn't know if there's any 'special meaning' behind the words. With Tweek, there usually isn't. Tweek thinks people that write and paint with _deep meaning_ behind their work are "self-serving twats."

After adding the purple letters, Tweek replaces the paint cans in his bag, arranges it on his shoulder, and cocks his head back toward the exit. He walks Craig home, smoking silently. Tweek is in a mode that Craig hasn't seen before. He isn't talkative, and though he's trembling a little from the cold and his medication, he seems calm, almost meditative.

When they reach Craig's house, he's reluctant to see Tweek go. Craig doesn't know why, but tonight, he's felt so much better than he has in a long time, so much less dead and numb.

The snow has soaked through Craig's Batman pants, and as Tweek warned, Craig is freezing his fucking nuts off.

They stand in front of Craig's front door, facing each other for awhile without speaking. Tweek frowns a little as he runs his eyes over Craig. He clears his throat and says, "You look cold."

"How observant you are, dickface," Craig responds.

Tweek unbuttons his trench coat, opening it up like he's illegally selling watches or sports tickets. He says, "C'mere," and when Craig eyes him suspiciously without moving he says, "Don't be a prick." And so Craig steps forward, fitting himself against Tweek's chest. Tweek buttons two or three of the trench's buttons, wrapping them inside.

"Fuck, you are cold," Tweek says.

Tweek, on the other hand, feels like a radiator.

Craig takes advantage of their closeness and kisses along the column of Tweek's neck lazily, eliciting happy hums from him. Craig still doesn't know why he loves this so much. He's never liked being this close. He's always valued his personal space. But Tweek is different, somehow. He likes getting Tweek to make noises and swear and blush. He even likes when Tweek gets him to do those things, too.

Tentatively, Craig rubs his hand against the front of Tweek's jeans. Tweek moans a little and mumbles, "Please."

Craig rests his forehead on Tweek's shoulder, looking down into the dark coat while he scrabbles along Tweek's zipper, pulling his jeans open with clumsy fingers. He feels fucking stupid, like he should know how to do this. But he doesn't, not really.

Craig reaches into Tweek's underwear. His cock is hard as a rock, making Craig wonder how long it's been that way.

" _S-Shit_," Tweek swears softly, "your hands are like ice."

Craig wraps his fingers around Tweek's erection. He shouldn't be doing this on the porch of his house, but he likes feeling like they might get caught. He isn't certain why. Maybe because he likes fantasizing about spitting in his father's face and shouting "Fuck you, I like dick!"

His fingers begin to move, warming up as he pumps along inelegantly, his movement not nearly as practiced and confident as Tweek's hands are when they're working on Craig's dick. He feels himself flush at the knowledge, which only makes him more determined to hide his face against Tweek's neck while he moves.

Tweek pulls Craig's hat off and kisses the top of Craig's head. He buries noises in Craig's hair and kisses him along the shell of his ear.

"Jesus, I'm gonna come," whispers Tweek, seconds before Craig feels warm liquid spurt over his hands. He wrinkles his nose, not sure he likes having Tweek's come all over him. But then he decides not to care, because Craig still doesn't want to move from the warmth of Tweek's coat and Tweek's body, which is soft and hot and quivering a little.

"Hey, Craig?"

"Mm," Craig licks over the fresh hickey he put on Tweek's neck.

"You know I call you names 'cause I like you, right?"

Craig's brows furrow. He pauses before answering, "Yeah, I know, asshole."

"Good," Tweek nods, "I have to go home. My mom worries when I'm out all night."

"Okay," mumbles Craig, even though he'd rather stay in Tweek's trench coat forever.

Tweek unbuttons his coat and Craig steps out. They kiss each other's swollen lips one last time before Tweek tromps off down the snowy sidewalk with a wave, and Craig uses the spare key to quietly let himself into the house.

He doesn't go to bed again. Instead, he washes the gummy come off of his hands and sticks a load of laundry into the washer so that his parents don't see it on his shirt, and then hops in the shower, letting his muscles melt under the hot water as he soaps the grease out of his hair and the smell of cigarette smoke and alleyway trash out of his skin.

Craig flicks on the light in his bedroom before redressing in his clothing for the day. It's already almost five in the morning. There's no point in wearing a fresh set of pajamas. Instead of sleeping, he rearranges the clutter on his desk and takes out his American History notebook, flipping to a blank page in the back. He realizes that he doesn't know what to write only when he lifts his ballpoint pen.

_Dear Mental:_

That's as far as he gets for several minutes.

_I have a lot of problems with my dad._

That sums it up. Sort of.

_It's been that way since I was little. When he gets angry, he –_

He what? He hurts Craig. He bruises him, he punches him. Before Craig could hold his own, he'd throw him around like a ragdoll. – _beats me up, sometimes. I can't get out of my house. I have pets. What do I do? Sincerely, All Alone._

Craig rips the page out of his notebook and folds it, tip toeing back downstairs to his dad's study, where he seals it into an envelope, addresses it with the PO box printed on the back of the zine, and sticks an American flag stamp in the corner.

Craig pads outside, shuffling through the thin layer of snow in his bare feet. Instead of putting the letter in his own mailbox, he sticks it in his neighbor's – Sally's – and lifts up the little red flag.

When issue number four of _Are You Mental? _comes out, maybe Craig will finally stop feeling so fucking lost.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my amazing reviewers, as always, for being so encouraging and helpful: Bubbl3wrapguy, KirstenTheDestroyer, FunnyHats, mallorymichael, MariePierre, princessbelle212, lilykinz200, w0rmsign, Raccoon Loon, Reverse Psychology, WizerdBeards, prettyoddrydonfan, TheAwesome15, hootpoop12, and Kuutamolla.**

**A special thank you to Chasing Rabbits, who drew me lovely art.**


	10. Abused for Being Strange

**Chapter Track: All Over You – Live**

**Hi, this is the chapter with an abortion in it! It is not depicted, but it does happen. **

**This is also mainly a Kenny and Bebe chapter. Mainly.**

Bebe doesn't think that Kenny knows when he traces circles on her thigh, or when he pushes his hand up her skirt. He does it out of habit, and probably affection, even though his hand should most definitely not be up her skirt during school. It's a sort of tic, his fingertips pushing past the denim and brushing against the lace edge of her panties, fiddling with the fabric, but doing little else. It drives her crazy, mostly because she spends the rest of the day wanting more and usually settling for a quickie in the backseat of her car while they wait to see if Craig needs a lift home or to Tweak Bros.

Kenny is dangerously close to doing that now. He's thumbing patterns right next to the hem of her skirt, one that she made herself out of leopard print fabric and black lace. He isn't focused on her, though. He's focused on the pair of people across from them.

It's their lunch period, and they're sitting out in the snow, smoking. Kenny is freezing his ass off, and so Bebe leans in close, pressing their sides together. Tweek and Craig are sort of doing the same thing – except that Craig is out like a light and flopped across Tweek's legs. Tweek takes the opportunity to pull off Craig's hat (something that Bebe just about never sees), and pulls his long, bony fingers through Craig's dark hair, which shockingly looks to have been washed within a day or so.

"This is weird," he says under his breath. Tweek stares at them like he knows they're discussing him and Craig, but a moment later, pulls his electronic cigarette out of the front pocket of his dingy trench coat and smokes.

Bebe half-smiles and replies, "I think it's sweet." She doesn't understand Craig – Kenny does, a little. But nobody gets Craig like Tweek gets Craig, or so it seems from where she's standing. Craig is cold and angry and doesn't like being touched, and for whatever reason, Tweek is his exception. Bebe is Craig's opposite, she thinks. She's happy, and she's affectionate. She would say that her cuddly nature is a product of being an only child and craving company, but Kenny's just as bad as she is. Sometimes, they fall asleep on opposite sides of her mattress, and she wakes up with Kenny wrapped around her, his legs hooked around her at the ankles, and his skinny arms clamped around her breasts.

"It's like how he used to be with Clyde," Kenny mutters, "only not. Like. Craig would let Clyde fall asleep on him, remember? But I don't think he ever would have passed out on Clyde. I'm just saying, I think Tweek and him have a thing going on."

"A thing," echoes Bebe. Staring at the two of them, she thinks that Kenny is right. Tweek and Craig are both angry, angrier than she can ever imagine being, but now they're getting along like a couple of tired infants.

"Yeah. They've definitely been fooling around," Kenny confirms.

Bebe agrees, "I don't think they've fucked, though."

"Nah, I think it takes a lot of booze or a lot of trust to get Craig comfortable with that shit," Kenny says, "But they've had their cocks out for sure."

"Would you stop talking about me?" Tweek calls, voice raised, "I know you're talking about me."

Kenny lights another cigarette – it's his third this lunch period. Bebe feels like maybe she should say something to comfort him, but she doesn't know what. Instead, she leans her head on his shoulder and pats his knee awkwardly. It seems to the trick, though. He glances down and grins at her with his cigarette still poised between his teeth, exhaling only when she smiles back.

"Where do you wanna meet after school?" he asks.

"About that," Bebe says sheepishly, "Do you think you could skip eighth?"

"Anything for you," Kenny replies cheekily, throwing in a wink. He smokes a little more, though, and Bebe knows that he's stressed out. Kenny won't say anything, of course. He doesn't like being worried about.

"It'll be okay," Bebe insists. They're driving to the clinic today – it's a little more than forty five minutes away, and Bebe doesn't want to have to go alone. She doesn't think that Kenny would have let her, anyway.

She spoke to her mom quietly about the situation. If Bebe had had another option, she wouldn't have told her parents at all, but she's a couple months shy of eighteen and she needs parental consent to get the pregnancy terminated. Thank God her mom's a reasonable person – although she immediately said, "It's Kenny's, isn't it?" and somehow, that made Bebe feel worse about everything. Her mom likes Kenny. She's said as much to Bebe herself. "He's a good kid," is her favorite idiom, one that she says when she's thinking of bruises and the burns, or how Kenny sometimes shows up with his sister in the dead of night on a weekday.

The way Bebe sees it, the smartest option is to abort.

Bebe still wants to go to school, and Kenny can't take care of a baby. He's already taking care of his sister, and paying some of the bills for his folks. His dad is scary. Bebe doesn't like him. Stuart always smells like booze and body odor, and he's rough with Kenny. Kenny can hold his own, she knows, but that doesn't stop her from feeling vicious hatred for Stuart and Kevin.

She just can't afford it.

And who knows what'll happen to Kenny and Bebe once they've graduated? As much as she adores him, she doesn't think they'll last forever. What kind of life is that for a kid? Never seeing its parents, living off of government checks and being passed from day care to day care. Bebe can't do that, and neither can Kenny.

They just _can't. _

Her mother is picking them up at two thirty. They're driving to Buena Vista. They're taking care of it. Her mom will drop her off at her car. Bebe will probably drive home after that, and she'll sleep and eat dinner like nothing has happened.

Across from them, Craig shifts awake. He stares at Kenny and Bebe as if daring them to say something about the fact that he fell asleep in somebody's lap, and pats his head, glancing around for his hat.

"Morning, baby," she says, even though she knows it'll piss him off.

Craig flips her off and snatches his hat out of Tweek's hand, glaring as he sits.

Kenny rolls his eyes and crushes his cigarette butt underneath his boots. He stands and stretches, offering Bebe a hand up. He's frowning still, a wrinkle between his brows. If nicotine isn't working to calm him down, he needs something more – something like sex. Except lunch is almost over, and they don't have time to retreat to her car to take care of business.

"C'mere," she says, an idea striking her.

Bebe leads Kenny to the upstairs bathrooms. In their sophomore year, Wendy fought tooth and nail to have a gender neutral bathroom installed. She won, and though it's only a single toilet bathroom, Bebe's proud of her best friend. For the most part it seems to be a place where the students mess around, although Bebe has seen Butters use it from time to time.

She locks the door behind them and turns back to Kenny with a smile, a real one.

"What are we doing?" Kenny drawls. He knows the answer.

"You need to calm the fuck down, honey," Bebe responds. She pushes him back against the wall, right beside the hand dryer that doesn't do shit to dry anybody's hands, but was a nice, green thought.

He stares as she unbuttons his tattered jeans, one of her nails catching against the zipper. One side of his mouth quirks up and he protests, "Bebe, you don't have to – I'm just – fuck. I'm worried about _you_. It's not a big de –"

Bebe puts two fingers against his lips, effectively shushing him. She replies, "Baby, the fact that you're arguing with me about getting a blowjob is a sure fucking sign that you need one."

He cocks a brow as she pulls his jeans and boxers down to his knees and asks, "What if I say no?"

"Then I'll stop," answers Bebe, "You're being facetious, dear." She takes his cock in hand and rubs gently.

Kenny purses his lips. The expression on his face makes her pause her movement, and when she does, he tucks a stray curl behind her ear and smiles at her wearily. Kenny leans down and kisses her and says, "Sorry. I'm being stupid."

"If you want me to stop, I will," she says, though she strokes him again, working a slow rhythm.

Kenny bucks his hips into her hand and pants, "Just let me reciprocate, okay?" He lets out a tiny moan when she flicks her wrist _just right_ and clutches at her hair, pulling just a little.

"We'll be late for class if you do," Bebe says pointedly. She sinks onto her knees, the tile cold against her legs, even with her favorite purple leggings on.

"Do you care – oh, _shit_," Kenny asks, cursing when she runs the flat of her tongue from base to tip.

"Not really," she answers, "Do you?"

"No, baby, that's why I offered," Kenny replies, his words disappearing into another deep groan when she pulls him into her mouth. They're in a hurry, and so Bebe doesn't bother teasing and drawing it out like she tends to enjoy doing. Kenny comes within minutes, after which he promptly heaves her up and deposits her on the bathroom sink.

Kenny tugs her panties aside, dipping his head underneath her skirt to tongue and suck inside her, melting Bebe into a puddle of herself until her orgasm rushes over her in waves.

They rearrange themselves and kiss a little more before exiting, heading off in opposite directions toward their respective classes.

The day wears on. Bebe is less tense initially, but as she makes it through the last few classes of the day, her nervousness returns with a vengeance. Will it hurt? Will she be okay? What if something goes wrong? She wonders if Kenny is thinking the same thing, but realizes that he's probably just worried about spending almost an hour in a car with Bebe's mom – Kenny likes her mom, usually. Bebe thinks he's embarrassed that he fucked up and got her pregnant. He tends to be cautious as fuck when it comes to sex, maybe because his parents were teenagers when they had Kevin and barely twenty when they had him. If there's anything Kenny doesn't want to be, it's like his parents.

When Bebe leaves seventh period, gathers her belongings, and tromps outside, Kenny is already standing by the door. He reeks of Stan's cologne, probably because he doesn't want Bebe's mom to smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and in his hair.

Kenny kisses the top of her head and mumbles something about how nice her shampoo smells, when Bebe's mother pulls up. He maintains his distance, then, though Bebe doesn't know why. Her mom already knows that they've fucked, and leaving room between them isn't going to change anything now.

"How are you feeling, honey?" asks Bebe's mom, as Bebe slips into the passenger's seat and Kenny loads into the back. She turns back to look at Kenny and says, "Hello, Kenny."

"I'm fine," answers Bebe.

"Hey, Mrs. Stevens," Kenny mumbles.

This is going to be a terrible car ride.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny drifts off on the ride to Buena Vista to the sound of Bebe and her mother talking quietly over cheesy eighties songs. He knows logically that Mrs. Stevens isn't angry at him, even if this whole situation is entirely his fault. If he'd just fucking told Bebe about the condom – but he can't think like that. He didn't tell her, and now he's facing the music. He doesn't like feeling this way, like an irresponsible fuck-up, like the person that all of South Park expects him to be. Like his parents.

The motion of the car jerks Kenny awake on a turn. He blinks. In front of him, he can see Bebe slumped over against the window glass, probably twice as tired as he is. He fiddles with his phone, texting Kyle absently about his whereabouts as they turn into a parking lot. Kenny has only told Kyle about the situation between him and Bebe, and that's only because Kyle happened to show up at his doorstep with a sandwich while Kenny was high. Kyle does that sometimes – bring him leftovers from the Broflovski family dinner. At first Kenny objected to being brought food like a kept dog, but he stopped complaining when he realized that Gerald and Sheila are both masterful cooks, and Kyle was just trying to be a good friend.

"Honey, we're here," Mrs. Stevens says, poking Bebe's shoulder.

Bebe jolts out of sleep and smiles, sliding out of the car.

Inside, there's a mountain of paperwork to be done. Sometimes Kenny has to look things over, though he isn't certain why. He scans and signs and places them in a pile, like a paperwork assembly line. When all is said and done, they wait for a few long minutes in silence, nothing but the waiting room music to fill it. Bebe slips her fingers into Kenny's, squeezing his hand like he's the one that needs to be comforted. Maybe he is. He doesn't know why. He's losing sleep over it, and he thinks it's because he's worried about Bebe.

Which is stupid. He doesn't need to worry about Bebe. She has a beautiful, warm house. A big bed. Understanding parents. She's gorgeous and she knows it. She's smart and she knows it. She has everything.

Kenny knows better to think that she can't be broken, though. Maybe he thinks that if she has one little thing go wrong in her perfect life that she'll shatter. That's stupid of him to think, perhaps. But he still doesn't ever want it to happen.

"Bebe Stevens?"

All three of them turn sharply to look at the door, where a cheerful-looking nurse in floral scrubs is standing with a clipboard. Bebe and her mother stand, though at the door, Kenny hears the nurse explain that there are certain parts of the clinic that are limited. He stands at that, too, following them into the back.

They draw Bebe's blood and check her blood pressure, going through a laundry list of standard procedures before taking Bebe to a room. It's there that Kenny and Mrs. Stevens are turned away, and told that it will be a couple of hours before Bebe is released.

When Kenny and Mrs. Stevens return to the waiting room, Mrs. Stevens is frowning, looking worried. Maybe Kenny looks the same, because she places a hand on his shoulder and asks, "Do you want to get some ice cream, honey?" finishing her sentence with a fragile smile.

"Um," Kenny manages, because he doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He shakes his head and says, "I'd rather just stay here."

"Yes, yes. That's probably a better idea," Mrs. Stevens agrees. She pats Kenny's arm and plops back into one of the waiting room chairs.

Kenny follows suit. He waits a beat, and then decides it's time for him to sneak in what he's been meaning to do – he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket (a duct tape thing that Ike made him for his birthday last year), tugs out the wrinkled bills where he'd tucked them safely away, and sticks them out in front of Bebe's mom with a muttered, "Here. For the, um, abortion. I know it's not a lot, but it's all I could pull together."

Two hundred dollars. He'd been saving for a car, but this is more important. God, he's an idiot.

"Kenny," Mrs. Stevens says, staring at the money but not taking it, "I can't take your money, dear."

Kenny presses it in her hand and says, "Please, Mrs. Stevens. This is – it's um. It's my fault. It's my responsibility. I'd pay for the whole thing but I – I can't afford it, so –"

"Honey," Mrs. Stevens protests again, pushing the cash back toward him.

"Please take it," Kenny says, hearing the desperation in his own voice. He sounds so ridiculous. So fucking foolish. He hates being here. He hates that he let this happen. He just wants to curl up and die – and that's saying a lot. He hates dying. But anything would feel better than this amount of worry, and this amount of shame. At least nobody has to know that he's a self-fulfilling McCormick prophecy.

Kenny closes Mrs. Stevens fingers over the cash, touching her fake pink nails to her palm. He smiles a little, realizing that this must be where Bebe got her taste in nails. After a long silence, Mrs. Stevens exhales out of her nostrils and retrieves her pink, faux-crocodile skin wallet from her knock-off purse, sliding the money inside.

They don't talk after that, for which Kenny is grateful. He can ponder his own dumbassery in quiet, thinking about how he needs to get a job and how Karen needs to go to the dentist, and how he needs to do too many things that cost too much money with not enough time.

He texts Kyle and Stan, and then Wendy when she asks how Bebe's doing. Kenny supposes that he and Bebe had a silent pact that they could tell one friend each – he doesn't know why he told Kyle. Kenny doesn't really have a best friend, not the way that Bebe and Wendy are, anyway. Or how Stan and Kyle are. He has lots of people but nobody really close. Typically he likes it that way. Now, it's exhausting and a little lonely.

He falls asleep again. He doesn't mean to, but he does, slumping into the waiting room chair. When he wakes up, Bebe's mom is reading a romance novel with a buff guy on the cover, his shirt half unbuttoned and his dark hair billowing back behind him in the breeze. Kenny wishes that he'd thought to bring a book, but bringing a book isn't the kind of thing that a McCormick thinks of.

A little more than an hour later, Bebe appears, holding a bundle of paperwork to her chest, and looking exhausted. They sign her out at the front desk and pay (Kenny refuses to look at the bill. Instead, he hangs back and pretends to be texting when he's really reading the same text from Kyle over and over just so he doesn't have to see how much he's cost the Stevens).

Mrs. Stevens doesn't say anything when Bebe slips into the backseat with Kenny. They drive with the eighties station up on high volume. Kenny feels dazed, like he knows what just happened but as though he can't really grasp it. He's glad it happened, though. He can admit – only to himself – that he was scared shitless. He is the last person on earth that has the means to be a father. His family uses their fists or empty beer bottle to solve their problems. There's still a meth lab in the back yard. His brother puts out his fucking cigarettes on Kenny, for fuck's sake. He doesn't even want to fucking know what Kevin would do with an infant around.

He's relieved, he realizes. He doesn't have to worry about that anymore. He can continue to concentrate on getting through school and taking care of his mom and Karen.

Mrs. Stevens drops Bebe and Kenny at Bebe's car in the otherwise empty school parking lot with instructions for Bebe to take it easy and make sure that she's home by ten at the latest.

"Do you want me to drive?" asks Kenny.

"Yeah," Bebe answers tiredly, and she hands him the keys.

It's only when Kenny starts her car that he realizes that he doesn't know where they're going. He asks, "Um, are you hungry?"

"Just tired," she replies, "Could we – I mean, could I take a nap at your house, maybe?"

Kenny wasn't expecting that. Bebe's never been inside his house before. The only people that have are Stan, Kyle and Cartman, and he rarely lets them over if he can help it. He chews on his lip, prodding at his lip rings with his tongue. He almost says no, but it isn't a huge request. He can do that. If they're in his room, nobody will bother him. So Kenny nods, but warns, "My bed isn't as comfy as yours."

Still, he feels his shoulders creep up closer to his ears when they pull in front of his house, which is in bad need of a paint job and a new roof. They don't have insurance, though, and therefore they don't have the money to get the damage taken care of, even though most of it is from a brutal hail storm that happened two entire years ago.

At the door, Kenny swallows the lump in his throat and turns back to Bebe, who is curiously staring at the wreck of a car sitting in their front lawn. A "project" that Stuart brought home when he was still in middle school, and that never got finished. He mumbles, "Just stick behind me, okay?" He laces his fingers in hers, before pushing open the front door.

Kevin is on the couch, sacked out in front of the television wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and his underwear. He starts a little when the front door slams closed behind Kenny and Bebe, and stares at them through tweaked out, glazed eyes. He takes a pull off of the beer in his fist, but makes no indication that he sees Kenny and Bebe. Kenny's glad of that. His brother is notoriously creepy to innocent attractive women, and he doesn't want Bebe to be freaked out.

He tugs her upstairs before she can focus too hard on the stained carpets or the debris of bottles and cans and old wadded-up fast food bags, or the fact that the only decoration on their living room wall is a neon sign advertising beer.

Kenny's bedroom isn't much better. His dirty clothes are scattered on the floor, and his bed isn't as much of a bed as it is a mattress sitting on the floor. He pretends not to notice that Bebe is staring, and collapses into his covers, pulling them up and peeling them back in invitation. Bebe sits on the edge, slipping off her red patent leather shoes before she scoots in next to him.

Kenny pulls her in tight, her back pressed up against his chest. She smells nice, like some perfume that probably cost a month in their electric bills.

Kenny doesn't realize that he's crying until Bebe blurts, "Oh, sweetheart," and turns around in his arms, nosing at the wet tracks on his cheeks. She strokes her fingers through his hair and asks softly, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says at first, because that's the answer that he always gives.

"You're crying, baby. Something's wrong," Bebe says. She presses her lips to the tip of Kenny's nose, and he can smell her strawberry lipgloss lingering when she pulls back a few inches.

"I'm relieved," he says, because that's part of it. Having Bebe in his house is scary as all hell. It's showing her a part of him that he never wanted her to see. She has to have known at least part of this. He knows that she's seen his house before, but he doesn't think that she's ever been inside, and inside is the worst of it. Bebe studies him, and so he continues, "and I – I hate my house. We can leave. If, you know, you're uncomfortable."

"I like it in your bed," Bebe tells him, sealing her words with a gentle kiss, "It smells like you."

Kenny makes a face, his brows lifting high, "Like cigarettes?"

Bebe laughs lightly and responds, "Sort of. But it just smells like _you_. I like it."

"You're a fucking weird-ass girl, then," Kenny responds. Bebe replies to this by smacking his arm.

They settle into each other after that. Bebe falls asleep first, her head nestled so close up against Kenny's collarbone that all he can see is the mass of blond curls populating her head. He dozes off after.

Kenny wakes a little more than an hour later. He extricates himself from Bebe's grip only to retrieve his ancient laptop, surfing through meme websites and chuckling to himself quietly.

Somebody knocks on his door, and doesn't wait for Kenny's okay to come in – which makes the intruder Kyle, naturally.

"Um, am I intruding?" he asks, indicating to Bebe, whose mouth is open just a little as she's still dead to the world.

Kenny shakes his head, "Nah. What's up?" Kyle tends to text ahead of time to let people know that he's dropping in – and sure enough, when Kenny checks his phone, there are three unread texts from Kyle, the latter two impatient and brusque about his impending visit to Kenny's house.

"I was just bringing the homework from eighth," shrugs Kyle, passing Kenny a packet and the reading material, "How, um, how did everything go?"

"Okay, I guess," Kenny answers, "I mean. I didn't do anything. You'd have to ask her."

Kyle frowns at that a little, using the same frown he uses when he's working on a particularly challenging calculus problem. He tilts his head a little, chewing his lower lip before he says pensively, "You're lucky, you know." And Kyle points vaguely to Bebe, who curls in at that exact moment closer to Kenny. She's awake, he realizes, and he glances up sharply to warn Kyle to stop talking.

But Kyle doesn't stop. He goes on, "She's like…perfect, dude. She's funny, and smart, and she's fucking beautiful as hell. I've wanted her – or at least someone like her – since like the seventh grade."

"What? Why didn't you tell me, dude?"

"I dunno. You guys are like, really happy," Kyle shrugs, "It pisses me off sometimes, how happy you guys are. You guys and Stan and Wendy, and Cartman and himself."

Kenny snorts at that. There's just barely a beat of time, which Bebe takes to announce that she's awake. Kenny wonders if she's uncomfortable after hearing Kyle's confession, but she's doesn't indicate that when she stretches like a cat and noses at Kenny's thigh. She glances over and like a true actress asks, "What's Kyle doing here?"

"Oh, um, I'm just going," Kyle says. Red stains his cheeks, rapidly moving to his ears and neck. He scratches a hand through his hair and says, "See you, Kenny. Uh, bye, Bebe."

"Wait," Bebe says, "I'm hungry. You wanna come with us to Denny's? It's on me."

Kyle stops, shuffling a little, clearly flustered. He swallows and agrees, "Um, sure, I guess."

Bebe rolls over, tugging Kenny's blankets off of her. She pushes her red shoes onto her feet, swaying a little when she stands. Kenny catches her and mumbles, "Whoa, you okay?"

"I'm a little sore," Bebe admits, pink flushing across her cheeks.

Kenny rubs a hand through her hair and says, "I'll drive, then, sweetheart."

The way to Denny's, like everything is in South Park, is short. Kenny parks in a nice spot in the front, right next to Henrietta's car – marked only by the fact that the back is splattered in stickers of bands that he's never heard of and isn't sure he wants to hear of.

On the way to their table Henrietta sticks her tongue through her thick fingers at Bebe, the fluorescent light glinting off of her stubby nails, which are painted black. Bebe throws in a wink back, instantly sending Kenny into a fantasy of two curvy girls doing _very_ dirty things. When he slides into the booth, Bebe is whispering something in Kyle's ear, something that's turned Kyle red all over again.

"Excuse me," he says, jolting up when Kenny slings his arm around Bebe, and Kyle darts off in the direction of the restrooms.

Kenny cocks a single brows and inquires, "Do I want to know what you just told him?"

"Only the truth," responds Bebe.

"The truth?" repeats Kenny, brow lifting ever higher.

"Jenny likes him," shrugs Bebe, "I thought he'd be interested to hear it. She's a little melodramatic, but she's just as smart as he is."

Kenny finds himself laughing before he can help it. He'd almost – _almost_ – been jealous. He pulls Bebe and kisses her loudly on the cheek, loudly enough that Henrietta can hear and know that Bebe is taken. He nips at her earlobe and sings under his breath, "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match…"

Bebe chuckles and shoves him away.

And like that, the stress lifts off of his shoulders. Kenny doesn't know what it is about this girl that he loves so fucking much. Maybe it's her wild hair or her fantastic rack, but other girls have those things – it's more that there's nobody else is quite like Bebe, and nobody ever will be.

Kenny likes it that way.

**o.o.o.o**

Every Friday after school, Tweek's mom drives him to Bailey to his PO box, where he collects the ever-growing pile of letters that people send to _Are You Mental?_ in hopes of getting some advice. Most of the time, Tweek knows how to answer them. He answers them like one of his therapists would answer, only maybe with a little more swearing than advisable. Most of the questions are kind of obvious or silly, but that's the root of the problem – public schools don't teach the answers to the obvious and silly questions about life and sex and drugs and anything that a teenager might be curious about. Instead, they stick their fingers in their ears and have a "No! Bad! Don't do it!" policy. They don't teach their students how to be safe.

It's a fucking farce.

Tweek complains about this the most on his blog. Lots of people agree with him, and they like his art, too. Of course, he keeps himself anonymous. He doesn't ever want to get caught in the game. They're always trying to catch him.

But they won't, not this time. Tweek is helping people. He's helping them learn useful ways to be safe while having the fun that they'd be having dangerously. He's helping them with sex and coping and general teenage bullshit.

"Pumpkin, we're here," says his mother, placing her hand on his shoulder. Tweek flips off his music and lets his headphones hang around his neck, following his mother into the post office. She's wearing a pretty dress today, a red one. Tweek wonders if this is a shade of red that Craig can see, or if it's one of the shades that he mixes up with green. He's glad he isn't colorblind like Craig is. Being colorblind would be hard.

Tweek's mom has to keep track of the key to his box. He knows that he would lose it. He loses things all the time. She keeps it on her keyring, with the emergency numbers for Tweek's special doctors and the bunny rabbit keychain that his dad brought back for her when he went to a coffee convention in San Francisco.

Tweek opens up the box. Inside, he counts four new letters to his zine. He takes them out one by one, handing them to his mom. None of them have return addresses, not that he ever expects that they will. So many people are embarrassed about normal-ass shit, like being horny or gay or having a weird period. It seems strange to him that people worry about those little things. At least most people don't have his problems. Most kids don't have voices in their heads telling them that everybody they love is going to die.

He frowns.

"When we get home, I was thinking that I would make those muffins that you like. You know, the ones with the blueberries and lemon rind?" his mom runs a hand over his hair. She does that a lot – petting his hair. She does it when she's thinks that he's upset, which is why he thought it might comfort Craig, too. Craig has nice hair. It's nothing like Tweek's. It's shiny and smooth and black.

"Sounds good, mommy," he says cheerfully. He does like those muffins. She's been baking more for him since she took his regular cigarettes away and made him smoke the dumb-looking electronic one. It's probably to keep him from pitching a fit, he knows, but he only pitches fits when entirely necessary, and as long as he's getting his nicotine fix he doesn't care enough to throw a tantrum.

Tweek slides his thumbnail under the flap of the first of the envelopes. It's one of his previous writers thanking him for his advice, which makes him smile. He'll tape it to his bedroom wall.

The second one is in neat handwriting describing borderline pathetic and unrequited love, something that Tweek can save for later.

Tweek thinks he might recognize the handwriting on the third letter. It's on college-ruled notebook paper in awful, sloppy chicken scratch.

_Dear Mental:_

_I have a lot of problems with my dad. It's been that way since I was little. When he gets angry, he beats me up, sometimes. I can't get out of my house. I have pets. What do I do? _

_Sincerely, All Alone._

Tweek's heart doesn't feel right. It feel sore, like it's been punched by Craig's mean left hook. He reads it again, just to make sure that he didn't misread, because maybe the author meant something else. He reads it a third time, and again after that.

Tweek flips the page over, thinking that maybe there's something else. That no, one of his classmates _isn't_ getting hurt by his dad.

Instead, in lightly drawn pencil, Tweek finds a doodle of a bicycle.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my fabulous, fucking fantastic reviewers: MariePierre, prettyoddrydonfan, w0rmsign, Kuutamolla, lucy sinclair, lilykinz200, myspoonistoobig, mallorymichael, Reverse Psychology, WizerdBeards, FalloutAngel, Crazy88inator, KirstenTheDestroyer, Melissamelon, KeiMaxwell, and SavannahJan3yo.**

**If you are curious about why I wrote Bebe having an abortion, feel free to message me. Just know that I am adamantly pro-choice and I'm not interested in arguing. **


	11. The Motives in Your Head

**Chapter Track: Inside Out – Eve 6**

Tweek stares at the bicycle for several long seconds before his sluggish brain kicks into gear. A bike. Bikes mean Craig, just like guinea pigs mean Craig and blue hats mean Craig, and making out in the backroom of his parents' coffee shop means Craig. Angry grunge rock means Craig. Black coffee means Craig. Anger means Craig. But more than most things, bikes mean Craig. Bikes mean Craig because they're just about the only things that make Craig smile if he's not paying attention. Bikes, the rodents that he calls his "babies" or his "boys," and sometimes, if he's lucky, Tweek can get him to smile too. He tries pretty hard, actually, and Tweek is of the opinion that it's more difficult than it should be.

Tweek makes most people laugh because he's crazy. _They're_ there in the back of his head. Not always, but sometimes, whispering quietly like Tweek's brain is a church but they still need to gossip. The voices are strangers – they used to be louder, until his medication told them to be quiet. They listen mostly, though sometimes, if he feels too much, they aggravate him.

"Sweetie, are you okay?"

Tweek's head shoots up, away from the paper in his lap. His mom looks worried, more worried than she should look, but ever since he had to go to the hospital she thinks that anything can set him off, can make him as crazy as everybody says he is. That's sort of true when he doesn't take his medication, but Tweek is fairly diligent about making sure that he does. The few times that he hasn't taken his meds consistently – either because he forgot or because he was testing in the name of science – didn't go over very well.

When he doesn't take his medicine, the strangers in his head flip from below the threshold of hearing to cacophony. They make terrible noise, and say things that make Tweek twist up into knots everywhere and make him want to curl up and cry. The worst is when they say that they'll hurt his mom and dad, because his mom and dad are the only people that love him and the only people that treat him like he isn't two steps away from shooting up the school.

"Mommy," Tweek says carefully, because he hasn't actually had enough time to both process the letter and implement a plan of action.

"What is it, pumpkin?" she asks. She runs her fingers through his hair, untangling it in her mom-like system of doing so.

"Can, um. Can Craig come over for dinner!" he exclaims, louder than he meant to, because he only just thought of the solution. If he brings Craig to dinner, he can butter him up with a home cooked meal and then maybe sex things. After Craig comes, he clings to Tweek a little. Tweek would like to think of this as a sign that as much of a dick as Craig is, he still likes being held if he's being held by the right person, and Tweek is a right person. Maybe Craig won't be mad if Tweek asks about what's going on when they're naked and tangled up together. Most people are mollified by that sort of thing.

A flash of memory comes to mind, of the bruises that Craig had from falling off of his bike again.

There were _handprints_ on his arms.

His gut ties itself into knots at the realization.

Tweek has to reason with himself when he thinks of the bruises. His brain jumps to wondering if it's the strangers in him that have hurt Craig – but no, no he knows that isn't it. It's Craig's dad. He tells himself that there really is a logical explanation for it and that the explanation is right in front of him, but it's difficult to believe. He's battling with his own brain and it doesn't seem to matter who wins, because no matter what, Tweek will also lose.

Jesus Christ, somebody is hurting Craig.

"Of course he can," his mom agrees. His mom likes Craig a lot, and she never hesitates to tell Tweek this. She goes on, "You know, that boy is good for you."

Mostly Tweek thinks his parents just believe in the power of sexual healing, which is why they don't object to their son being an unabashed slut.

Tweek frowns at the letter in his lap as his mother puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the post office parking lot. Typically he'd press his forehead against the window a let himself get dizzy from watching trees whip by, but he can't tear his eyes away from the penciled-in bike until he flips back to the words.

_He beats me up, sometimes._

_Sometimes – _the word is there like an afterthought, like Craig doesn't want to make the fact that his dad is _beating him_ seem like it's as bad as it is. Shit, Tweek has seen Thomas Tucker. The man is huge, and he has mean eyes. Tweek never trusts anybody with mean eyes, and for a damn good reason. Because if they're like Thomas, they hurt people. Some folks, Tweek has noticed, say that Craig hurts people – but he doesn't mean to. He can't help it. And Craig doesn't have mean eyes. He has sad eyes. Before Tweek left, Craig just had bored eyes, like life was just a humdrum party populated with uninteresting people.

"Do you mind if I turn my music on, sweetie?" asks his mother.

"Go ahead," he mumbles, without looking away from the page. He stares so hard at the blue lines and sloppy letters that his eyes start to cross. It's only then that Tweek lifts his head. His chest feels like a warzone, like little people are inside his heart shooting the fuck out of each other and getting blown up by mines when they misstep.

His mother turns on the stereo, flipping through the tracks on the CD. Tweek already knows what song she's going to choose before it even begins playing. It's his mom's favorite song. When he was little, she used to sing it to him when she tucked him in for bed. She doesn't tuck Tweek in anymore, though sometimes he hears her check in on him when she thinks he should be asleep.

"Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings," she sings along with the lyrics, nudging him to join in. Tweek would on any other day, but he feels sick to his stomach right now and he doesn't want to sing along with the Monkees. Instead, he tunes out his mom's cheerful singing and thinks about how much he wants Craig's chest up against his again, and how badly he wants to see Craig with all of his clothes off. And how after they do ten million delicious, terrible things with each other, how they'll hold each other.

Tweek plays with his Gameboy while they drive, but he still feels awful and impatient and likes he's way too far away from South Park. He doesn't like being away from home for too long, especially when he's upset like he is now. His brain seems to be working both too fast and too slowly. Paranoia seeps in under his skin, starting from underneath his fingernails and settling in his bloodstream. He keeps blinking hoping that the pencil bicycle on the paper on his legs will go away, but it stays. It stays and so Craig is staying, hurt Craig. Hurt Craig who has bruises around his arms like gold cuffs on a genie or ropes on a slave.

Fuck. Jesus. Shit – his mind moves a million miles but he is trapped inside it too, jogging desperately behind the thoughts whipping by like cars on a lonely highway.

When they finally pull to a stop in front of the Tuckers' house, Tweek shouts over the white noise of his thoughts and the strangers' gossip that he'll get Craig, and bolts from the car, almost tripping over his own feet when he stomps up the front porch's stairs. He rings the doorbell several times in a few short seconds, feeling like a killer might catch up to him if somebody doesn't let him inside. No, it's worse, because a killer won't be getting Tweek, a killer will be getting Craig and Tweek won't be able to get to his body where it's bleeding out on his bedroom floor.

His poor guinea pigs are probably squeaking for nine one one –

The door opens to Craig's mom, and the crescendo of Tweek's thoughts go stonily silent for a few awkward, painful seconds. Once, Mrs. Tucker was probably really pretty, or so Tweek guesses. Now she looks faded and unhappy, something that isn't helped by her high-waisted jeans or her yellowish, fake blond hair.

"Is Craig here?" asks Tweek, belatedly remembering that ringing the doorbell twenty times in a row is not considered polite and that he should probably turn on manners of some kind. He doesn't quite know how to do manners, though, so he only ends up smiling awkwardly and shuffling his boots on the welcome mat. Mrs. Tucker stares into his eyes with a little hitch between her gray-blond brows. Tweek wonders if looking into his eyes is like how a fortune teller might stare into a crystal ball – she can see his morbid mind and how he panicked about Craig's dead body and the guinea pigs calling for nine one one.

Mrs. Tucker points up the stairs and Tweek gives a hasty thanks. He bursts into Craig's bedroom without a knock, finding him splayed out on his back. His guinea pigs are sitting on him, padding around on his chest with their little feet. Craig jumps when Tweek busts open the door, sending both guinea pigs into fits of concerned squeaks.

"What the fuck, Tweek," he complains, scowling at Tweek before he pets his guinea pigs whispers a few soothing words to them under his breath.

"Come to my house for dinner," Tweek says, turning on his in-charge voice so that Craig will know that he actually has no option but to agree.

"Why," Craig says blandly, but he sets aside one guinea pig on his mattress and takes the other to the cage across the room, repeating for the second one.

Tweek rolls his eyes, "Because."

"That's not a reason, asslicker," Craig responds, even though he's slipping on his shoes.

"Whatever, dickhead. I'll jerk you off in my room after. Happy?" Tweek folds his arms in finality.

Craig glares at Tweek and hisses, "Not so fucking loud, you stupid fucker. I don't need my shitty parents knowing about my – that stuff."

Tweek feels a pang in his heart so big he's afraid that it'll rip right out of his chest and pump itself dry right here in a pile of Craig's filthy clothes. As Craig zips his ratty hoodie over his chest, Tweek pulls wraps his arms around him, hugging Craig from behind. He kisses Craig's neck and works his way around to his face, before turning Craig in his arms and pressing a kiss to his lips. It's a really good kiss. Tweek makes sure of it, stroking his piercing inside Craig's mouth in slow, confident caresses. Craig groans into it before shoving away.

"Not now – later."

This makes Tweek dim a little. Kissing Craig is nice. It gives him something to concentrate on, something that's nice because it smells good and tastes good and makes Tweek feel good.

"So you're coming," Tweek says, just to be sure.

"I guess so," Craig shrugs.

When they land downstairs, Craig doesn't say anything to his mother, who's on the couch watching some cheesy show on TLC. She does give them a _look_ though, one that Tweek doesn't like at all. He inches closer to Craig, reaching for his hand before he realizes that Craig doesn't want anybody to know that he's into guys, and holding hands with him probably qualifies as gay. Still. Tweek isn't keen on uncomfortable looks from evil ladies that let their son's body rot on his bedroom floor and can see into eyes like crystal balls.

Craig looks surprised when he sees Mrs. Tweak in the car at the curb waiting for them, like he expected them to be walking to dinner.

When they arrive at Tweek's house, Tweek's mom stops chattering to Craig only long enough to say, "We're having pork chops, sweetie, is that okay?" She's looking pointedly at Craig, and Tweek can tell by the way that she's fidgeting that she wants to fix his hair and brush him off just like she's always doing with Tweek. It isn't anything like the way that Craig's mom looked at him, like she doesn't even know who her son is and doesn't want to know, either.

"That's fine, Mrs. Tweak," Craig says, expression tight. He's in a bad mood. At least, Tweek guesses that he might be. His meds make him feel less, and it bugs him, because he can't feel what other people feel, either.

Tweek takes him upstairs, wishing that dinner was already over and done with so he could strip all the clothes off of Craig's perfect little skinny body and kiss him senseless. Ideally, Tweek would really, _really_ like to fuck Craig, too – but he knows that Craig isn't ready yet for that kind of thing. It's frustrating, but he actually kind of likes Craig and he doesn't want to push him.

It's merely that sex brings Tweek down to a quieter level, a level where his brain seizes up and he can focus on primal movement and feeling nice and making others feel nice, too. It's one of the few things that he can concentrate on. Sex makes him feel safe. It shuts the strangers up.

On his bed, they kiss a little, mostly necking and kind of rubbing up against each other until Craig pulls back and says that he doesn't want to be hard at the dinner table. So they watch a movie together on Tweek's laptop, one of Tweek's absolute favorites – Rocky Horror Picture Show. Craig has never seen it, and loops a running sarcastic commentary as it continues on, until Tweek punches his arm, Craig punches back, and they end up on the floor, kissing just as quickly as they were hitting each other.

Right as Tweek starts reaching for the button on the front of Craig's jeans, his mom calls them down for dinner.

The table is set like Tweek arranged his tea party, with mismatched dishes and tableware. Even the candlesticks in the center of the table don't go together – one is an antique piece of silver that belonged to his dad's great grandmother, and the other is a ceramic holder that Tweek painted with rainbow stripes. The reason that none of their dishes ever match makes Tweek upset when he thinks about it and so he tries not to – ever since he was little, anger and confusion poured into him like rain, or maybe hit him like hard balls of hail, and in fits of rage he's smashed so much glassware and china that at eleven years old he started to collect it just to make pieces of art out of the ones that he smashed. There's a box of sharp-edged shards hidden in the back of his closet, behind the mosaics that he makes with them. If Tweek's parents found out about the shards he'd make them angry, or maybe sad. They don't trust him with anything even remotely dangerous.

Tweek, meanwhile, does not trust the strangers with anything dangerous.

He understands why his mom and dad worry. He really does. His parents don't want him to hurt himself. There's precedent for their worry. He's cut himself on purpose before, but they found out and hid things from him, and it make them so miserable that Tweek didn't gain any pleasure from doing the cutting anymore. For awhile, though, cutting his legs up felt better because it was a blood sacrifice, a sacrifice to the noise in his brain, the angry people telling him that his parents would be murdered in the night. He offered up his own blood instead, but it made everything worse.

Now he makes art instead. And drinks and does too many drugs, even though he shouldn't be doing either of those things. It says so on his pill bottles.

Tweek swoops in front of Craig and pulls out his chair for him, winning a smile from his mom for remembering his fucking manners for once. Craig gives Tweek a sidelong glance before tentatively taking his seat, unfolding the napkin on his plate and placing it across his lap. He's so robotic, clinical in his approach. Tweek wonders if Craig is like this when he's having dinner at his house. Craig says he mostly eats Tostitos and pizza rolls alone in his room when he's hungry, but they have to sit down as a family sometimes, right?

When Tweek sits, Craig leans over and asks under his breath, "Do you guys say grace or shit like that?"

"Grace?" echoes Tweek, "Like praying? No, we just eat." Tweek doesn't trust the god that made him like this, anyway.

Craig shrugs at that, and accepts a glass of water from Tweek's mother, as his father pours glasses of wine for the both of them. Normally they let Tweek have a little wine too, but they never do when there's company.

Tweek's parents ask Craig a lot about school, but they pick up on that he isn't interested in discussing it. Craig says he doesn't know if he wants to go to college. He's told Tweek he thinks that he should because that's what everybody tells you you're supposed to do, but he doesn't think that he's smart enough, that he's nothing like Kyle or even Bebe.

Tweek thinks Craig is smart. At least his brain isn't full of pudding and strange people.

Craig doesn't believe him. _You're so full of shit_, he always says.

Tweek is _not_ full of shit, no matter what Craig thinks.

When they finish eating, Tweek doesn't do the dishes, and nor is he asked to, though Craig hangs back awkwardly by the stairs like he might be asked to clean something. Tweek moves in to kiss him but Craig stiffens up when he does, pointing to Tweek's parents, who are scraping leftovers into the compost can and pretending that they're not spying.

Tweek sticks his tongue out at them and his mom sticks her tongue out back. Tweek rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he is convinced that his parents are actually toddlers trapped in middle-aged bodies. They still get into tickle fights with each other, for Christ's sake. And that isn't even a euphemism for them fucking. They fuck _and _get into tickle fights.

Tweek locks his bedroom door behind him and herds Craig onto his bed.

"I want to see you naked," he says plainly. Naked bodies are Tweek's favorite, because you see everything and hide nothing. He hears tell that that's exactly why most people don't like nudity, but he loves it, being bare and seeing people bare and knowing that that's how they're supposed to look. There's nothing that they're covering up.

A tinge of pink colors Craig's cheeks, as though he thinks that Tweek shouldn't be so forward. Fuck that – that's what Tweek thinks. He thinks that the world would be a better place if everybody communicated what they wanted and didn't want explicitly, instead of beating around the bush and being bashful about their every little need. Needs and wants shouldn't be sins, they should be known.

"Why would you want that," Craig asks softly.

"Because," supplies Tweek.

Craig rubs his temples for a moment as though Tweek is giving him a headache and says, "How many fucking times do I have to tell you that 'because' is not a fucking reason."

"It is so a reason," Tweek retorts. He knows he's being childish, but he doesn't think he should need to give the reasons that he wants to take Craig's clothes off. Don't people just infer if you want to see them stark naked on your bed that you think they're attractive? Maybe not Craig, he supposes. So Tweek bites the bullet and clears his throat, preparing for a speech. He explains, "I want to see you with nothing covering you up and hiding you. You're so pretty, Craig."

Craig interrupts before he can continue, "Pretty. I am not pretty. Bebe is pretty. _Kenny_ is pretty. I'm…gross."

"Just take your clothes off," Tweek says testily, and adds as an afterthought, "If you're okay with that, I guess."

Craig gives Tweek a hard stare before breaking his gaze tossing his head to the side. Without looking Tweek in the eye, he mutters, "Only if you do it too."

"Really?" Tweek brightens. He's perfectly comfortable with being naked. Hell, when nobody's at home, he likes walking around the house in the nude. He sits back on his leg and unbuttons his trench, draping it tenderly over his computer chair before tearing his t-shirt over his head and struggling with his jeans. Tweek manages to rid himself of the denim, though without an ounce of grace, kicking them off onto the carpeting.

"Jesus, Tweek," says Craig, as he yanks his briefs down and off of his hips. He isn't hard yet, but Tweek is generally okay with his body and isn't really worried about it. Before he started his medication and after his massive growth spurt he looked a little skeletal, but the meds caused major weight gain. He's average-looking now, and that's fine by him. He used to worry a lot about his body, before everything that happened – before he freaked out because they _were definitely_ going to kill his parents he was powerless to stop them, and before he was taken away to the hospital because the strangers aren't really there. It's his brain playing tricks on him, they say.

"Wait," Craig says. He reaches out and grazes his fingertips over the thick, fat scars across Tweek's thighs, hidden where nobody could know of his sacrifice. Now, the wounds are old and fine blond hairs are growing over and around the scars.

"Those aren't important," Tweek says, because they're not. Not anymore, in any case.

Craig frowns, and there's a wrinkle in his brow now, but he falls silent.

Tweek kisses Craig's neck a little and then asks, murmuring in his ear as he kisses and licks along his earlobe, because Craig doesn't seem very keen on removing his own clothes, "Do you want me to take them off for you?"

"Um," Craig says, sounding unsure.

Tweek takes the opportunity to pull off Craig's hat and run his fingers through through dark hair. He realizes that maybe Craig isn't okay with any of this, and then wonders if maybe he's pressuring him or being too persistent. He says it all the time in his own fucking zine: Consent you get through pressure isn't really consent. So Tweek pushes a close-mouthed kiss to Craig's damp lips and says, "We could watch the rest of the movie if you don't wanna do this." Of course, that would foil his plans for asking Craig about his bruises and his dad, but Tweek would rather make sure that Craig is comfortable before asking questions as invasive as he pretty certain his are. The least that Tweek can do before interrogating him about it as planned is to butter him up with an orgasm.

"No," says Craig, "Fuck. I do. Um. I just – yeah."

Tweek translates this from 'nervous Craig' into English and says, "You want them off," and tugs at the hem of Craig's old hoodie.

Craig nods.

So Tweek unzips and unbuttons and pulls, until Craig wears nothing but his tacky Red Racer socks, which are long enough that they reach mid-calf. Tweek ducks to tug them away, too, but Craig protests, "No. I want those on."

There are new bruises on Craig's chest. Tweek sees the old ones, too. They're greenish now, not like the new ones on Craig's abdomen, which are an ugly purple color that makes Tweek twist up into knots when he sees it. He ghosts his fingers over the damage and whispers, "Ow." The bruises are terrible battle wounds, and Tweek thinks that he should perhaps caution Craig to be more careful, lest he become a bleeding body on his bedroom floor. Then who would take care of those fat rodents that Craig loves so much? Corpses don't keep pets.

"Yeah, I pitched myself over another tree root yesterday," Craig says, chewing on his lower lip. Tweek stops him with a kiss, running his fingers back through Craig's hair just hard enough to scrape his nails against Craig's scalp. A moan leaks out of Craig like a hymn, long and low like he's praising what Tweek can do to him.

Tweek feels a little like crying when he rubs his fingers over the discolorations, because he doesn't want Craig to become a dead body, he wants Craig to be alive. He tips Craig's chin up just a little and stares him straight in the face, promising him, "I'll kiss them better."

Tweek kisses every last bruise. He kisses the healing, yellow ones on Craig's arms, the ones that look like hands. He kisses the ones on his chest, licking his lips before he lightly pushes against each one. Tremors shudder through Craig's body with each tiny touch of Tweek's lips. Craig doesn't groan and grunt like he usually does. He keens and whines, shaking fingers searching blindly for Tweek's hand, which he grips when he finds.

When Tweek is done kissing Craig's bruises, he reaches down to touch him, gripping Craig's cock firmly, and pumping it enough to make it hard. Craig leans up into Tweek and kisses his neck. His tongue is warm and wet and perfect against his skin.

And his brain is settling. Even if the pieces of his puzzled mind haven't been put back together, they're all at least in the same fucking box, if only for a few blissful moments of sexual peace.

"I don't want to hurt you," Tweek says, indicating to Craig's bruises, "You get on top, okay?" Craig looks at Tweek a little like a deer in headlights, so Tweek helps him, gripping him by the waist and careful to avoid the tender spots, and shifting so that Craig straddles him and his back is flat against his mattress.

Their cocks rub together and Tweek moans a little, closing his eyes and thrusting into it. Craig mimics him, pushing up against Tweek. His movement is smaller and more restrained, but when Tweek rubs against Craig again they fall into a rhythm, punctuated by uneven breath and muffled noises. Tweek grasps Craig's wrist and moves their hands together down over where they're moving together.

Tweek takes them both in his hand, stroking surely. After a moment, Craig's hand joins his, and they drive their hands over their erections. Noises erupt from Tweek that he can't help. He figures his parents have heard them by now and he doesn't give a shit, because he _likes_ that people know about them. He likes that he's hand Craig's cock in his hand and he considers how he should really put it in his mouth more. The thought makes him click his piercing against his teeth in frustration.

This clicking sends Craig over the edge. He comes first, spilling over onto Tweek's stomach. Tweek follows after three succinct strokes, coming with a broken cry that veritably echoes through his bedroom, frightening away any nasty thoughts or leftovers from this afternoon's earlier scare.

The mattress sags on Tweek's left side as Craig lowers himself shakily. They're both sticky and the stench of sweat permeates the air and the sheets. Tweek feels like maybe he should clean them up, and lazily pulls a couple Kleenex from beside his bed to wipe them down half-assedly. He balls them up when he's done, tossing them onto the floor. He considers that he may need to clean up the tissues off of the carpet sometime soon. It's getting _slightly_ gross, being that his bedroom floor is a sperm graveyard.

"Spend the night," orders Tweek, his voice is thick and tired. He wants something to grab onto tonight, and Craig is very good for grabbing.

"'Kay," Craig grunts. He turns his face against Tweek's arm and touches his lips to Tweek's bicep. Tweek lives for these moments. His mind is not silent. It never is. But after he's had sex, after he's come, everything deadens to something like TV static. Just for now, his brain doesn't feel like a crowded elevator, one that so many people stuffed themselves into that it's over the weight limit and is plummeting down.

Which means he has to ask Craig about the letter.

About the pencil drawing of the bicycle.

About Thomas Tucker.

Tweek pulls Craig close to him, petting his hair with his other hand. He's sure that Craig likes it but won't say anything. Sometimes, Craig seems like the main character in a teen novel to Tweek, with misplaced pride in strange places, and he's unwilling to give up any of it.

But then, he did give up some of his pride. He wrote to Tweek and asked for help. Maybe he didn't ask directly and maybe he clumsily attempted anonymity, but he knows that it's Tweek behind _Are You Mental? _and so he knows that he was writing to him. Somehow that knowledge makes Tweek's insides feel as though they're melting to goop inside of him. He doesn't know that anybody else would write his zine anymore if they knew who made it. He knows what everybody says about him, that he's crazy and weird and unpredictable, like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. Some of it is fair. He does have strangers in his head that tell him terrible things about the people that he loves.

But he isn't stupid.

"Craig," Tweek mumbles into Craig's dark hair.

"Just shut up and go to sleep for once," he complains. He shifts a little to reach for Tweek's comforter, which got stuffed on against the edge of the bed sometime during the sex, and tucks it over their bodies. Craig doesn't really like talking after he comes, he likes sleeping.

Tweek pulls out of Craig's loose grip and the blanket and crawls to the end of the bed, reaching for his trench. He pulls out the letters where he slid them into one of the silky inside pockets, shuffling through them until he finds Craig's.

"What the fuck are you doing, asshole," complains Craig, but it isn't with ire. He sounds annoyed, but tired. Tweek glances over his shoulder – Craig gazes at him through heavy-lidded eyes, before holding his hands out almost like a toddler would when it wants to be picked up and held. Craig sees the paper in Tweek's hands a moment later and his expression goes blank, completely erased. He enunciates his words carefully as he queries, "What are you holding?"

Tweek scoots back to Craig and tucks himself under the comforter again. He fingers the edge of the folded paper and says, "One of the letters to my zine."

"Why."

"Because it's from you," Tweek whispers. He feels guilty and upset, and the feeling of clear static and contentment in his head plunges back into dark, murky thoughts of Craig being dead and bloody on his bedroom floor. The guinea pigs crying for help. And nobody listening, because Craig's dad is a monster and his mom can see into people's eyes like crystal balls.

Craig gives a stiff, forced laugh and tosses his head away from Tweek. He says, "You're full of shit. I haven't written you anything."

"Yes. You have," Tweek insists slowly. He cups Craig's face with his hand and draws him over so that they face each other, pressing what he hopes is a reassuring kiss to Craig's swollen lips before he unfolds the letter and hands it to Craig.

Tweek sees it in Craig's face – he's been caught. The letter is his and he's panicking. He's shaking now, and it's not from post-sex happiness, it's from fury or fear, or maybe both of them. He tosses the letter back to Tweek and says, "That's terrible. But it isn't me."

"Yes. It is."

Tweek turns the paper over and gives it to Craig again. The bicycle drawing seems darker than it should be. It looks like an omen and Tweek doesn't like it. It's dark and scary.

Craig is stumped. His mouth is open as though he thinks he might have something to say but can't find it. He's cornered, and he knows that he is. Tweek has ruined their night, but he hopes it isn't without a reason or a result.

"It's none of your _fucking_ business, Tweek," Craig says lowly.

"Yes it is! You wrote to me for help, you dumb fucker," Tweek insists, "I want to help. You – you're hurt, and if I don't help then you might bleed everywhere and die, and then who will take care of your guinea pigs?"

"Fuck you!" he shouts. It's loud. Tweek winces and covers his ears.

Craig shoves him away with enough force that it hurts, and scrambles out from under the covers. He kicks around the floor, looking for his clothes, and pulls on his underwear.

Tweek jumps into action, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. He says, "Stop it. Craig, I'm serious. I'll do whatever –"

Craig lunges forward and delivers a punch, cuffing Tweek in the shoulder and sending him back onto the mattress. Craig yanks himself away from Tweek's hand and yells, "You don't have any _fucking idea_ what you're talking about. All I wanted was," – he pauses, as if he realizing that he doesn't know what he thought would come out writing to _Are You Mental _– "just fuck you. Stay out of it. It's not your fucking business just because we touch each other's dicks."

"No, but you made it my fucking business when you wrote me a letter," argues Tweek.

Craig's face is going purple like he's trying to hold in his breath. He releases that breath after a few tense seconds, exhaling out of his nostrils.

Before he grabs the nearest object, which happens to be the lamp on Tweek's bedside table, and hurls it at the wall. The lampshade flies off and the light bulb smashes. The ceramic base dents the wall and breaks in a few bigger pieces.

Then he's throwing everything he can get his hands on. Books, a case of drawing pencils that explodes on contact with the wall and sends pencils soaring in every direction. He shouts at Tweek, "I'm fine! I'm fucking fine!"

Tweek curls up in the corner of his bed and lets it happen, too frozen to know what he's supposed to do. Normally he'd probably hit back, or throw something at Craig, or even hug and him and kiss him until he isn't upset anymore, but none of those solutions seem right. This has never happened before, nobody has ever been this angry at Tweek before. They're always calm and cautious with him. Maybe he should be calm and cautious with Craig, but Tweek doesn't know how to be those things. He's never been those things.

Craig is terrifying. Tweek doesn't want him here anymore. He's transformed, and everybody in Tweek's head, including Tweek himself, is scared.

At the door, frantic knocks sound. Tweek's mom's voice worriedly asks, "Boys, are you okay?"

Craig stops dead in his tracks, dropping the next thing that he had been about to throw, one of the lunchboxes from Tweek's collection. It falls to the carpet with a hollow, metallic clunk. Craig is panting, running his hands through his hair and tugging a little, like Tweek used to do when he was anxious. He snatches his jeans off of the floor and pulls them on, followed by the rest of his clothing piece by piece. The last thing that he takes is his hat, tugging it as far as it will go over his hair.

When his hand touches the silver doorknob, Craig turns back and stares Tweek down with blazing eyes, whispering harshly, "Do not fucking tell anybody about this. I swear I'll – I'll fuck you up. Just stay out of it.

With that, Craig flings open the door, shoving past Tweek's mom where she stands in a long nightgown and fluffy pink slippers, and leaving Tweek stunned and naked on his bed.

**o.o.o.o**

**Wow you guys. You really came out of the woodwork after the last chapter, and I am really thankful for the support. Thank you so much to my amazing reviewers: So Devious, NSRforevermore, Sami, lilykinz200, Kuutamolla, KeiMaxwell, if-i-had-wheels-id-be-a-wagon, Yui 88, DahmerEatsRainbows, SomeoneCMary, w0rmsign, MariePierre, TheAwesome15, Reverse Psychology, mallorymichael, KirstenTheDestroyer, Chasing Rabbits, (an anonymous reviewer), Crazy88inator, princessbelle212, WizerdBeards, and DevilMakesThree.**

**It means a lot to me, especially since I was so nervous about that last chapter. I know this one is a little different too, because it follows Tweek. And now you all know how unhinged he is. **


	12. Won't You Come and Save Me

**Chapter Track: Man in the Box – Alice in Chains**

Craig tears down the stairs past Mrs. Tweak. Underlying his rage is shame, shame that he exposed himself in two entirely different but equally terrifying ways. He can't believe he let Tweek see him like that, let him kiss the bruises that he lied about. Yet worst of all is that Tweek _knew_ where the bruises really came from. He knew what he was kissing.

"Craig, are you alright?" Mr. Tweak calls after him, his brows raised high on his head in a way that reminds him of Tweek.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Craig manages, before he pries open the Tweaks' front door and tromps off down the sidewalk.

It's dark and freezing outside. The streets are so quiet that he can hear the meager traffic all the way from the highway that borders the outside edge of South Park. He doesn't know where he's supposed to go at this time of night. He doesn't want to return home, but is certain that in the end, he will. He doesn't have a place to go. There is no Token's house, no Clyde's how, and in the handful of weeks that Craig has gotten accidentally closer to Tweek, Craig has managed to ruin whatever they had, too.

He hit him.

And Tweek looked scared – actually scared. The new and improved, unflappable Tweek Tweak was scared.

And it's all Craig's fault.

Fuck. Fuck everything. Fuck his parents, fuck his life, and fuck people that he lets get too close. When they get too close, they think that they have a right to be snooping into Craig's life, to be _concerned_, to meddle in business that is Craig's and Craig's alone. It happened with Token and Clyde, and now it's happened with Tweek, too. Craig exploded, went ballistic, and punched Tweek before he tore through his bedroom like a tornado ripped his belongings to shreds.

As usual, he proves to be the demented fucking monster that people tell him he is.

Craig walks briskly with no destination in mind. It isn't as though he could get lost. This godforsaken town is so tiny that he'll always know where he is. In a way, it's a slow kind of torture. He'll always know the way home, but he'll never want to go back to it.

Within a few minutes, the small knot of houses and business disappears behind him, and he's standing in front of Stark's Pond. It's abandoned, though during the day it was filled with ice skaters. Craig doesn't know how to skate. Clyde and Token tried to teach him once, but the lesson ended with Craig feeling sorry for himself – and sorry for the bruises on his ass – in Token's basement, with a cup of some gourmet cocoa that he didn't want to admit tasted good in his hands, while he watched them bicker over a game of Mario Kart. They'd tried their best, but even with each of them holding him his arms and letting him skate between them, he couldn't do it.

Craig stands still on the sidewalk for awhile, before he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and lights a cigarette. His hands still smell like Tweek.

He's never been that close to anybody before, actual skin on skin, seeing them without anything on at all. Even when he and Bebe were fucked up ages ago and he made his sexual debut, she'd just pushed up her skirt and Craig had just pulled down his jeans. It was over too fast and Craig doesn't remember most of it.

It wasn't at all like what just happened. He and Tweek been sober, for one.

And he loved it.

He'd felt kind of _okay_, though only for a little while.

"Fuck!" exclaims Craig. Every time that he has the chance to do something right, it goes horribly wrong. He had somebody that gave a damn about him for once – after he'd beat the shit out of Clyde, nobody could stomach looking at him, let alone hanging around him or going so far as to give a damn about his dumb ass. He kicks through a snowdrift toward the iced over water.

He's angry. At Tweek, at himself, at his parents, at the world. He doesn't know where to go or what to do, just that he's fucked everything up and he's out of attractive options.

Craig cautiously toes the ice with his sneaker, pushing down on it to check how stable it is. No matter how many other people don't think that they're going to fall through the pond, Craig wants to know for himself. When he's decided it's okay he slides out onto the ice, shuffling tentatively across it.

It's then that he hears a, "Hey, Craig?"

He swivels around and crash lands directly onto his back.

"Ungh, fuck," he wheezes, rubbing his cold hands over his face.

When Craig pulls them away, Clyde hovers above him, holding out a gloved hand to help him up. Craig pushes his hand away and forces himself to stand up on his own, wobbling a little. He demands, "What the fuck are you doing out here, Clyde." This is the last thing that Craig needs tonight, to be reminded of yet another thing that he royally fucked up.

Clyde says, "I saw you walk by my house. I…thought I'd say hi. And, um, maybe invite you back to my house? My mom and I made oatmeal cookies! They're a little burned on the edges, but the middles still taste good."

"Clyde, your parents hate me," Craig says. The Donovans didn't used to hate Craig. They used be his parents in a way that his own never could be – feeding him and making sure he remembered to brush his teeth before he and Clyde went to bed, or bringing them snacks while they watched a movie in the Donovans' basement. But then Craig busted Clyde's jaw because he's an idiot, and he hasn't spoken to the Donovans since.

Clyde frowns, "They don't hate you."

"I'm not coming to your house," Craig responds.

Clyde gets a sad little smile on his face, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his well-cut red jacket, which looks a lot warmer than Craig's thin hoodie. He pulls something out of one of the pockets and sticks it out toward Craig, saying, "Yeah, I knew you'd say that. I brought you cookies anyway."

Craig stares for a moment before Clyde thrusts the Ziploc baggie of oatmeal cookies forward. Craig takes it, but only because the look on Clyde's face says that he will be heartbroken if Craig doesn't accept the gift. He's right – the cookies are burnt around the edges, and they're a little smushed from being stuffed into Clyde's coat pocket. Craig still feels his chest hurt a little when he looks at them, no matter how imperfect they are.

"Are you okay, man? You seem pissed," remarks Clyde.

"I'm fine," Craig snips.

"So, are you like _seeing_ Tweek or whatever? 'Cause I thought you and Kenny were a thing," Clyde goes on.

Craig rolls his eyes and replies, "Just because you suck a guy's dick doesn't make him your boyfriend. But yeah. I guess. I was seeing Tweek, or whatever you called it. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"We just messed around some. Would you fuck off," Craig asks. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need Clyde with his small town boy classic good looks and charming smile, or his fucking cookies that probably burned because Clyde was in charge of taking them out of the oven.

Or worse, maybe this is what Craig needs the most.

It's what he wants, he knows that. But just because you want something doesn't mean that you can have it. He's always figured that you have to earn good things, and Clyde is too good a thing for Craig to ever deserve again.

"You know what," Clyde says, "Fuck you."

Craig exhales his last puff of cigarette smoke and chucks the butt off someplace into the snow before turning back to his old best friend and saying, "What."

"You heard me," Clyde goes on, "Fuck you. And fuck Token too. You guys are so fucking self-righteous sometimes, you know? You act like my parents, like you and Token know what's best for me. Guess what? The person that knows what's best for me is _me_. And what I think is what's best for me is having my best bro back. I'm not stupid, and I'm not naïve. I love you. But you are being a total fucking prick right now. Enjoy the cookies, asshole." He turns on his heel, not being able to storm away like Craig thinks he might want to because the ice is slippery, not conducive to a march befitting the speech he just gave. Still, he doesn't turn back, not even after he's made it off of the ice and is stepping through the snow, onto the sidewalk and back toward his house.

Craig lights another cigarette. He's too weary to be stunned, but if he hadn't already had an adventurous night, he swears he'd be shitting his pants right now. He just got _told_ by Clyde. Clyde doesn't _tell_ anybody. Clyde is the one that gets told – so Craig guesses he was tired of that, tired of being treated like he's stupid. It was mean, maybe, to treat Clyde like a class-A dumbass. Clyde is smart. If anybody's the idiot between Craig, Clyde and Token, it's definitely Craig. He guesses he just had to bring somebody down to his own shitty level so he didn't feel so alone.

Craig lies down on the ice and finishes his cigarette silently, staring up at the sky. He can see almost all the stars here. Once, for Token's sixteenth birthday, he went down to spend the night in Denver in a fancy hotel room. When he'd looked up, there were hardly any stars. Just a few, and Craig thinks that those may have just been helicopters.

In the end, Craig wanders back to his house. His ass is numb from sitting on the ice and he can't feel his fingers. When he arrives back home, the house is dark and silent inside, for which Craig is grateful. He wants to try and sleep for once. He has work tomorrow, and Tweek will inevitably be there, with his stupid fucking crayons and his stupid fucking concern. In addition to making complicated drinks for people that he hates all day, he'll have to ward off Tweek and pretend that he doesn't exist, which will be difficult.

Tweek gets a kick out of making sure that people knows he exists in the most obnoxious ways possible.

When Craig quietly slips into his bedroom, his guinea pigs squeak in worry. He toes his way around dirty clothes and the general debris on his bedroom floor to stroke them for a few silent seconds before dispensing his clothing and redressing in thick pajamas. The house is especially freezing tonight – his parents don't believe in wasting precious money on extra heat. "Just put on a sweater" has been his mother's favorite winter mantra for as long as Craig can remember.

But when Craig pulls his blankets up over his body, wrapping himself in his Red Racer fleece, he can't fall asleep. He stares at the wall instead, thinking of how fucking frightened Tweek looked when Craig started throwing his things. He couldn't have been that scared, right? The kid has huge eyes, anyway. His face is a perpetual expression of surprise.

At last, when Craig sleeps, it's a restless sleep. He tosses all night, feeling sore and uncomfortable and too hot or too cold, dreaming vaguely of strange things that he can't get out of his head. At eight in the morning, when his alarm on Craig's cellphone jerks him out of sleep, he feels half-dead, only awake enough to pull on his clothes and his Tweak Bros apron. His canvas sneakers are still damp from wandering around in the snow last night, and when he sneaks past where his parents are watching television and makes it outdoors, the biting wind makes his toes go numb.

As expected, Tweek sits at his favorite booth with his crayons and his paper when Craig walks through the door. He doesn't jump up like he tends to do when Craig arrives. Instead, he looks up to see who walked through the door, and returns to his drawing.

Awesome. Maybe Craig won't have to deal with him today. Maybe Tweek won't be another Clyde, maybe he won't be persistent. He'll let them drift naturally. Clyde never knows when to let things go. Hell, when they were in kindergarten and Sailor Moon went off the air, he passed a petition around in class written in crayon to get it back (Mrs. Donovan thought it was cute, and still has the piece of paper. Clyde made Craig sign it first – his name is in blue, and the 'u' in Tucker is backwards).

Basically, Clyde doesn't accept when things end, whether it's Sailor Moon or their friendship. He thinks that good things are meant to last forever.

Craig starts the day by deftly ignoring the fact that there is an inordinate amount of clicking coming from Tweek's booth as he works on a drawing, and fetches himself a huge black coffee to stave off the exhaustion from last night. He's having more trouble bouncing back from this then he does when he's hungover after going to a party.

God, _that's_ what he needs. He needs to go to a party. He hasn't gotten fucked up in ages, at least anything beyond a drink or two or joint to himself. He's been off doing other shit – working, hanging out with Tweek, doing his schoolwork because the only thing he needs to escape this place is to graduate. Last weekend he spent writing his American History essay while high, but it isn't the same thing.

He wants to black out and not wake up until the next afternoon.

Craig can't ask Kenny and Bebe. They've been staying in more, like a boring old married couple. Bebe has declared that she wants to spend the rest of the school year being _responsible_, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. Craig doesn't understand why anybody would do that. Responsibility is a bitch.

"Make me a drink."

Craig glances up from his science homework, which is laid out in a messy spread beside the register. Tweek stands in front of the counter, his arms folded defiantly, and his brow cocked. In the coffee shop, Craig's orders are to listen to Tweek when he wants something, a rule that was relayed to him before the Tweaks knew that Craig and Tweek had been getting fresh with each other in the backroom. They'd thought that Craig and Tweek were still at odds, and Craig would need instruction on how to babysit him.

"What do you want," mumbles Craig.

"I don't know," Tweek replies, "How about a _steaming asshole_?"

"That sounds uncomfortable," Craig responds.

"I was talking about you, dickface," Tweek says.

Craig rolls his eyes, "I know. What do you want."

"I want to help," Tweek snips, "I want to make sure that you don't get hurt anymore, I _want_ you let me."

Sparing a panicked look at the door, Craig yanks Tweek forward by the lapels of his trench coat and hisses, "I told you. I'm fucking fine. Drop the fucking subject, you crazy, insane, unbelievable fucker."

At that, Tweek pulls back, tearing his coat out of Tweek's grip. He has the nerve to look actually wounded when his eyes refocus on his hands and he mutters, "I'll have a caramel macchiato. Prick."

Craig makes it without speaking and, capping it, hands it to Tweek, who is clicking his piercing against his teeth. God, the asshole fucking gets off on making Craig's life miserable. Why can't he just sit down, shut up, and mind his own business? How hard is that?

He flips out his phone, wondering who the hell to text about finding a place to party tonight. It shouldn't be hard. It's a Saturday, so there's got to be a party out there somewhere. That's when Craig realizes that he has only one option.

Ike.

_To: Ike: know of any parties I wanna get trashed_

_From: Ike: Well, look who it is. Come to grovel?_

_To: Ike: dont flatter yourself your my last resort_

_From: Ike: Charming. Yeah, I know of a party. It's not too far, actually._

_To: Ike: come get me at ten_

_From: Ike: Yes, your majesty._

As soon as Craig pockets his cellphone, he hears Tweek clicking again, like the asshole that he is. Apparently, he's opted to be _exactly_ like Clyde, inserting himself where he doesn't belong because he's "worried" and "wants to help." Craig doesn't believe that bullshit for a second. Tweek wants something from him, and that something is sex. He'll trade a helping hand, as long as he has someplace to put his dick.

Throughout his shift, more drinks are ordered by Tweek than every other customer in the joint combined. The fucker slurps down coffee like it's his job, ordering something new only twenty minutes after he's had another drink.

"You're going to give yourself a kidney stone," comments Craig, as he completes a soy vanilla latte with extra foam and an extra shot of espresso – Tweek keeps making the drinks more fucking complicated as the day progresses.

"Oh, cool. Craig is allowed to worry about my kidneys, but I'm not allowed to worry about the fact that his fucking chest is goddamn purple," Tweek quips back, yanking his fresh drink out of Craig's hands before Craig can brainstorm a comeback.

"Fuck your kidneys," Craig calls.

They fall silent. Craig's chest is aching on the inside and on the out.

"I miss kissing you," Tweek announces, though not even thirty seconds of silence have passed.

"It hasn't even been a day," Craig pointedly says.

Tweek sticks out his tongue and says, "Doesn't mean I can't miss it."

This makes Craig hurt more. He doesn't like it at all. Tweek making him feel puts him on edge, and worst of all, it makes him miss kissing Tweek, too.

The remainder of Craig's shift passes without consequence. He finishes his homework and feels okay about the job he did, although every time he opens up a textbook, he feels stupid and wonders if anybody actually understands the words, or if he is merely as dumb as he suspects he may be.

When he arrives home, he doesn't speak to his sister, who's sitting with her laptop propped on her legs in front of the couch, and marches directly upstairs. He naps and plays with his guinea pigs for awhile, fucking around on the internet and debating whether or not it would be appropriate to look up porn featuring tall blond boys, until there's a knock of his bedroom door and his mother's voice saying, "There are some boys here asking for you, Craig."

Craig pushes his shoes onto his feet and tugs his hoodie on. Downstairs, Ike is shuffling his feet, dressed in a slightly-too-small Chinpokomon t-shirt with sweatbands on his wrists, looking like the bonafide prepubescent nightmare that he is.

Beside him, in a pretty-boy white t-shirt and expensive-looking, flattering jeans, is Stan Marsh.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" demands Craig when his feet hit the landing.

Stan rolls his eyes. Craig flips him off.

"Well, fuckface, you don't have a car," Ike says, "And my dear friend Stanley does, and he wants to get drunk."

"What, Wendy finally come to her senses and finally dump your deadbeat ass?" asks Craig.

Stan takes a step forward, but Ike's skinny little arm shoots out, and he says, "Ease up there, cowboy. I know you two hate each other, but after a few drinks, you'll be getting along just fine. So how about nobody opens their mouth until we're all drunk?"

Ike calls shotgun, and they load into the car without a sound. Craig and Stan haven't gotten along for years. They've been at odds since the Peru incident, if Craig's being honest. Though for the most part their irritating posse seems to have grown out of adventuring at the expense of everyone around them, nobody seems to get into sticky spots quite like Stan Marsh. It is for this reason that Craig avoids him like the plague.

The drive isn't far, only a little out of town to a house that looks old and dank like the McCormicks' place, with peeling paint and a roof in bad need of repair.

It's exactly what Craig needs.

Bass is thumping, making the house creak and groan with protest. When the three of them push their way inside, it's mostly dark inside, the lighting limited to dim standing lamps and a sketchy looking fish tank in the corner of the living room in which all the fish appear to be missing. Craig wastes no time in finding the beer, chugging a can down without a care. Across the room, he watches Stan do the same, moving onto his second beer within fifteen minutes of being in this hazy, smoke-filled crowd. Ike is smoking with a couple of guys that look twice his age with a bong that looks twice his size.

Craig doubts that Sheila would approve.

"Hey man, you want?" a guy with his long hair pulled back into a bun holds out a couple of tablets in his palm. Craig doesn't know what they are, but he doesn't give a shit. He takes both, washing them down with a swallow of cheap, bitter beer.

Craig goes to find more drinks and ends up taking shots with a couple of girls in tight jeans that are looking at him like he's a worm.

"It's okay," Craig slurs, reassuring one of the girls, "I like dick anyway. I don't need your fuckin' approval."

More beer. The drugs have long since set in, making things warp and bend.

Dizziness flickers over his mind like an ancient movie playing over a projector. One moment, he's standing, and the next, he's on the floor, the can in his hand overflowing beer onto the carpet. This is nice. It's good. Craig has no idea what's going on but it looks pretty and he's numb, so pleasantly numb that even thoughts of old friends and almost lovers don't upset him. He just chuckles into the carpet, which reeks of cat piss and tastes ashy and poignant.

In the next scene Ike is kneeling above him, looking as though he's about to burst into tears. There's vomit all over the front of Craig's t-shirt. He reaches up and strokes Ike's short hair, which is spiked with too much gel and feels all gummy when Craig puts his hand in it.

"Don't cry, Ike," Craig says, "I'm sure somebody loves you." That's what he's upset about, right? The fact that he's a pest and nobody actually wants him around? No, that's a lie. Kenny's sister seems to like having him around. Like right now. She's staring at Craig with a grim, knowing expression that Craig swears she stole right off of the face of her pretty-boy brother. When their gazes connect, Karen gives Craig a nod and pats Ike's shoulder.

What is Karen McCormick doing at this party?

"When did Kenny's sister get tits?" is what bubbles out of Craig's mouth instead.

Some asshole stumbles over Craig's bent up body. His sneaker manages to catch just at Craig's abdomen, where the worst of his fucking bruises are. Throbbing pain breaks out all across that stretch of damaged skin, and Craig rolls over to throw up again, spitting up the grossest, most acidic mixture of alcohol and pain of his life.

When he tosses his head to see what dickhole doesn't know how to watch out, he sees Stan Marsh on his back beside him, his eyes glazed and wide.

"You know what you are," Craig says, "You're like," – he burps, fearing that he's going to vomit another time – "a pretty version of me." He reaches forward and pets Stan's hair. Somehow they end up with their lips smashed together, and Craig doesn't like it. No, he doesn't like this at all, because it's like he's kissing the better version of himself, with the dark hair and light eyes and skinny, tall body.

Then the music stops. There's no beat, no more smoky voice of a rapper whose name Craig doesn't know. There are lights, red and blue lights. They're pretty, just like the fourth of July – at least he thinks until he realizes that he's being hauled up onto his feet and being patted down. They keep shouting out him, everybody, asking him for things, asking him what his name is and how old is he and _what did you take, son_?

"I have no fucking idea," he says, but he doesn't know if he's answered too late.

They're pulling his hands behind his back, and Ike's too – Karen and Stan and everybody, they're all in trouble. The metal cuffs around Craig's wrists are cold and uncomfortable, and he doesn't like them. He whines about the discomfort and gets told to shut up a few seconds before he's herded into a police car with the pretty lights that he'd thought were fireworks.

Someplace vaguely in his mind his realizes that he's being arrested, but it doesn't quite register on Craig's radar like it seems to be for the others. Karen is crying and Ike looks humiliated but trying to play it cool, though Stan looks like he knows what's happening on about the same level as Craig – which is to say that he has no fucking clue.

They drive off down the dirt road that lead up to the house, and land on the highway headed toward home. He thinks that the policemen driving the car are lecturing him, something about being too young for this, and what would his parents think? Craig scoffs at that. His parents don't think anything of him, whether he accomplishes things they never dreamed he could or ends up in a police car on a Saturday night, high off of his ass.

As they pull into a familiar lot in front of the police station, Craig has just enough of his brain left to tell the cops that he wants his mother to come pick him up, specifying that he doesn't want them to call his dad. They don't make much of a move, but he hopes that they heard him.

Craig is stuffed into a holding cell with a bunch of other drunk teenagers. His wrists are freed but sore, and he rubs at them miserably before snagging the bench of to the side. One by one, the rest of the partiers join them. He waves at Ike when he seems him and Ike waves back, face dark.

With little else to do, Craig falls asleep, ignoring his whirring vision and embracing his numbness, he falls asleep. It's the best sleep that he's had in ages, even though the bench underneath him is hard and his dreams are surreal and vivid. He powers through them better than he has in weeks. Sleeping poorly, he decides, is a side effect of sobriety.

Until he's prodded awake.

"Dude. Dude, they're calling for you."

Craig jolts awake, nearly toppling from his perch on the bench. Karen McCormick is the one that woke him. There a quite a few less people than there were when Craig passed out, probably all picked up by disappointed parents. Ike and Stan are also still here, sleeping on each other on the floor of the holding cell.

Awesome.

This has to be the lowest point of his life, right here. He is still half-high, not sober enough to stand without tripping over his own feet and into the barred door in front of him. This is where he sees a stout officer beside one of his least favorite people (but not the worst, thank God), his mother. Her lips are sealed tightly closed, her arms are crossed, and her foot taps against the cold floor.

"Hello, _mother_," greets Craig, "Come to pick up your deadbeat son?"

He can hear the words that are coming out of his mouth, and doesn't think that sober Craig would approve. Nonetheless, he keeps talking, "And what does dear ol' dad think of his demon spawn fucking up his life even more?"

"We're not telling your father about this," his mom answers tightly.

Craig's brows lift at that. He frowns and asks, "What." The officer unlocks the holding cell, careful to eye the other occupants to warn them, and pulls Craig out before locking it again.

"I am not involving him in this…incident," she clarifies, digging around in her quilted paisley purse until she finds her car keys. Before they exit the station, she turns to the officer that let Craig out of the holding cell and touches his arm, smiling fragilely and remarking, "Thank you for your help, officer."

It's only after they've trekked across the parking lot to his mother's car and loaded inside that she turns to him and demands, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Craig?"

"What's wrong me," Craig repeats, mulling it over, "What's wrong with me is you people."

"Craig _Tucker_!"

"Well, I'm not the one that likes to just stand by and pretend that we're a fucking nuclear family or some shit while my husband beats the shit out of my son. That's you, princess," Craig snaps.

"Your father does not 'beat the shit' out of you. You're being melodramatic," argues his mom, starting the car. She turns on the radio as if to say that this is where she's putting an end to the conversation.

Craig slams his hand down on the radio, effectively turning it off. He yanks up the layers of his hoodie and shirt, which are crusted over at the top with something he does _not_ want to think about, and doesn't remember the origin of, revealing his bruised abdomen. He shouts, "Yeah, that's nothing. Nothing to worry about. Got it, bitch."

Tweek was right, Craig realizes. But it's too late now – Craig won't admit that he was wrong, that things are getting out of hand and that he may need help. He's dug himself into a hole this time, one that he probably won't get out of. He thinks of what Tweek said, how Craig would end up bleeding and dying on the floor and that there would be nobody to take care of his guinea pigs.

Instead of feeling scared, he feels resigned.

It probably will happen. And fuck it, he's the one that got himself to this point.

His mom slams down on the brakes, stopping them completely right in the middle of the highway, which is thankfully clear of any other cars. Her face is bright pink when she turns to him, like a lighter version of his father's all-out rage. She enunciates every dangerous word as she speaks, "Do _not_ refer to me as a bitch, Craig. I am your _mother_."

"Being my mother and being a bitch are not mutually exclusive," snips back Craig.

She looks like she wants to strangle him, but settles for flipping him off, slamming her foot back on the gas and sending them flying down the road. She turns the radio back up to near full volume, and they proceed to ignore each other. Good. It's more comfortable that way, especially with Craig coming down from his high at as rapid a pace as he is.

It's with his returning senses that he realizes that his head feels strangely cold. He feels along his head and discovers that his hat is gone. Inner panic rises, even though he knows it's just a fucking hat. But then, it's not just a fucking hat, it's _his_ fucking hat, the thing that he's been able to hide underneath for all these years, his comfort, the same way stuffed animals and baby blankets are to other kids.

Craig doesn't do anything, though. As much as he wants to demand that his mother turn around and drive back to the station, he knows the hat isn't there. Karen or one of the others would have said something. It's probably stuck in that sketchy house someplace.

As they pull into garage, Craig decides that this weekend has been his all-time low. Not only did he hurt the last fucking person on this planet that he cared about, but he's emerged from the dust without his hat, without his friends, and with a court date.

Fucking awesome.

Craig proceeds for the week much as he did through the weekend, ignoring and avoiding Tweek at all costs, feeling naked without his hat, and dipping into empty classrooms whenever Clyde or Token pass him by. He goes through his routine robotically, going to school, going to work, getting high and doing his homework. Halfway through the week he's smoked through his entire supply and he refuses to go to Kenny for more.

Everybody keeps trying to talk to him.

Bebe stops him in the hall whenever she gets the chance with a concerned, "You okay, baby?" and Craig pushes past her each time.

Kenny asks the same question, but instead of 'baby,' he says 'dude' or 'man.'

Garrison approaches him again.

Tweek won't stop appearing everywhere that Craig goes.

And so, when Craig feels a tap on his shoulder at his locker on Thursday, his response is his usual: "Fuck off."

"I heard you're a fag," says the voice behind him, and it does not belong to anybody that Craig tends to hang around.

He turns, finding the voice to belong to Fosse. Fosse is an asshole, probably because he's bitter about being held back and watching the rest of his classmates graduate while he's stuck in his junior year. He's exactly the stereotype of people as far into the mountains as they are, wearing ill-fitting jeans that he tucks a worn plaid button-down into. There's a huge bull belt buckle attached to his leather belt.

"What the fuck do you care," says Craig, "You want your dick sucked or something? I'm closed for business, asshole."

"No, faggot, I'm gonna kick your ass," Fosse announces, like he's proud that he came up with the idea to kick a gay kid's ass all by himself.

"Tragically, I have to go to class," replies Craig, "but I'll pencil you in for later, dickface."

Fosse's face turns bright red, like Craig's dad does when he's pissed. That's how Craig knows that he's about to get punched, exactly a split second before a fist flies into his face. Craig's books clatter to the linoleum floor, his homework fluttering out and around the hall.

When an angry growl tears out of Craig's throat, some kid yells, "Fight!"

Damn right, there's a fucking fight. Craig is sick of this shit. He's sick of being treated like this, like his father treats him, hurting him because there's a fucking _rumor_ that he kisses guys. There's the graffiti in the bathrooms, and that picture of him with Kenny.

He hates all of this.

Craig slams his fist in Fosse's nose, refusing to relent even as blood spurts out, coating Craig's knuckles and the cuff of his hoodie. He punches again, and again, and again.

Then, Fosse kicks him in the gut, slamming his cowboy boot into the bruised expanse of Craig abdomen, the one that's healing so slowly that it's still purple.

It disarms Craig in a second flat, sending him reeling. He lands on his side on the floor and throws up. Fosse laughs murkily and wipes the blood out from under his nose.

But before Fosse can go in again, somebody shouts out, "You _fucker_!" and smashes their fist into Fosse's head so hard that he topples back onto the floor, skidding from the impact.

It's Tweek. He doesn't go in for a second punch, but he does spit on Fosse's face before turning on his heel. His boots squeak against the floor and his trench coat billows out behind him when he kneels at Craig's side, working his arm underneath Craig to lift him up. Tears form at the corners of Craig's eyes against his will. He's in so much pain that he can't stop it, and so he closes his eyes instead.

"Shit," Tweek says, trying to pull Craig up without results. Craig turns his head away from Tweek and vomits again. He's shaking so hard that he can't make himself stand. Shit. _Shit_, he is in so much pain. Everything inside him hurts, writhing around in horrible, tight knots. He can't get up, he can't think, he can't help himself walk, even when Clyde pushes his way through the crowd and lifts up Craig's other side.

"Oh my God," Clyde says. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears, which Craig doesn't understand. Craig's been beaten to hell before, and it'll happen before.

"Craig, can you talk?"

That one is Tweek.

Craig shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he'll vomit again.

"You go," he hears Tweek say, "I'll take him from here."

"Okay," Clyde replies, "but tell me if he's alright."

"I will."

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph," says the nurse's voice, "What the hell happened?"

"He got hit in the chest," says Tweek, "he was already hurt and he's throwing up a lot. Is he gonna be okay?"

"I don't know, Tweek, honey," replies the nurse, with an air of familiarity that would surprise Craig is he didn't know how sick Tweek is, "I'll take him and you can go back to class, alright?"

"No!" protests Tweek, "I'm staying here with him."

"That's against school policy –"

"Do I look like I give a shit?" Tweek demands, "I want to stay with Craig."

She sighs, but Craig feels himself being moved again. He's on his back, on one of the cheap beds on the back, but he doesn't hear the crinkle of the paper-covered pillow underneath his head. Instead, he smells Tweek, and realizes that he's lying with his head in Tweek's lap.

"Well, there's no blood in his vomit," mutters the nurse.

"That's good news," Craig mumbles, laughing a little. He feels lightheaded, but he dares to open his eyes anyway. His vision swims a little, but he can still see the look on Tweek's face – he looks as though he might burst into tears, like Clyde sounded just a few minutes ago. Craig tries to smile up at him and says, "Hey, fuckface."

"Hey," Tweek replies. He starts petting Craig's hair. Instead of making Craig feel good, it makes him miss his lost hat.

"Thanks for punching Fosse in the face," Craig says. He's trying to joke, but he accidentally sounds sincere.

"I think he just needs to rest," the nurse says, "I'll call his parents."

"Fuck no," Craig says, at the exact moment that Tweek yells, "No!"

"Why not?"

"They're, um," Tweek starts.

"At work," Craig finishes.

"My mom can come get us," Tweek insists.

"Tweek, you know I can't do that," the nurse says, placing a hand on each hip.

Tweek looks like he might throw a tantrum if she doesn't let them get away with this.

The nurse sighs loudly and rubs at her temples. She concedes, "Okay. Fine. But this is the _only time_, boys, do you hear?" Her heels click as she walks back toward her phone, dialing Tweek's phone number, which she evidently knows by heart.

Tweek keeps petting at Craig's hair, running his short fingernails against his scalp. He says, "I'm sorry for pissing you off."

"Don't apologize, you stupid asshole," wheezes Craig, "I punched you, I threw your shit. So don't give me that shit. I'm the one that should be sorry. And I am."

"Well, you'll have to make it up to me."

"What. How."

"Letting me have a kiss," Tweek says, "I really, _really_ missed kissing you, asshat."

"As long as I don't have to move," Craig submits.

Tweek ducks down and presses his lips to Craig's. For just that tiny space of time, Craig feels a little better.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you thank you thank you to my amazing reviewers (I'm sorry this is a little late!): w0rmsign, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, mallorymichael, DevilMakesThree, lilykinz200, WizerdBeards, Raccoon Loon, MariePierre, Mysterion, theyellowsky, glow vomit, Crazy88inator, Kuutamolla, KeiMaxwell, KirstenTheDestroyer, prettyoddrydonfan, Reverse Psychology, and Cchall.**

**A special thank you to FunnyHats and KirstenTheDestroyer for some beautiful fanart!**


	13. Your Skin that I'm Sinking In

**Chapter Track: Glycerine – Bush **

Tweek lets Craig lie down in his bed after his mom comes and picks them up. She fusses over Craig when Tweek helps him limp along into the house, insisting that she see what's hurt and Tweek insisting that she should not. Tweek naturally wins, though Mrs. Tweak insists that she make them something to eat, and gives Craig a hot pad to plug in upstairs.

He holds the pad over his abdomen and the relief rains through within a few short seconds. Tweek stares at Craig for a little while, standing awkwardly beside the bed before taking out his electronic cigarette (which appears to have been decorated with stickers), inhales once, and replaces it in the front pocket of his trench, which he pulls off and drapes over the back of his computer chair.

Tweek always looks bare without his trench coat on, almost more naked that if he'd been wearing nothing at all. It seems strange to see him without it, and every time that Craig does, he feels as though he's looking at something far more intimate than he should be. It's just Tweek, he tells himself, Tweek in a t-shirt and jeans like any other kid. But then, Tweek isn't any other kid – he's Tweek.

Tweek drags his fingers through his blond hair, tugging a little at the strands stuck between his bony fingers, and chews on his lip. He shifts uncomfortably and asks, "Can I, um, lie down next to you?"

Craig lifts a brow.

"You're hurt," explains Tweek.

Craig rolls his eyes and shifts off to the left, leaving enough room for Tweek to slither onto the mattress beside him.

"It was only a boot to the gut," replies Craig, "C'mere."

Maybe Craig _is_ still a little woozy from the brawl. This is making him feel better, having Tweek crawl up next to him and start petting his hair. He presses lazy, damp kisses to the side of Craig's neck and noses at the shell of his ear. His breath is already a little heavy, like he expects this to turn into another one of their sexual escapades.

Tweek confirms Craig's suspicion when he whispers thickly in his ear, "I wanna be inside you." It's not the first time that Craig has heard this sentiment from Tweek's mouth, though his phrasing is a great deal more romantic than the 'I'd totally stick my dick you' that Tweek had expressed during their bloody reunion. It's funny how long ago that feels, even though it's only been a couple of months.

The pretty words don't make Craig entirely comfortable with the concept, however. He's never been one of those people that wants to keep his or herself 'pure' or whatever. The concept of virginity is stupid, anyway. This nonetheless feels like something that he needs pour a lot more trust into, trust that Craig doesn't have. He feels his face turn red and stammers out, "I don't – I'm not –"

"You're not ready? That's cool. You could always fuck _me_, if you wanted," Tweek smiles, but Craig doesn't think that he's teasing. Tweek has a habit of sounding as though he's joking and meaning every word.

"I don't know how," Craig says stupidly. He's thought about it a little – okay, fuck it, he's thought about fucking Tweek a lot – but they already have had sex. Not by societal standards, perhaps, but Tweek says if you consider it sex, then it's sex to you and that's how it works. Craig's whacked off to the thought, but he's been too lazy to seek out any instruction, or even watch porn that might help. He doesn't know how this sort of thing works.

Tweek pets his hair a little more and says, "It's not hard. I can teach you."

"How."

Tweek swallows a knot in his throat and shifts a little. He runs his hand along Craig's side and stops at his ass, cupping in through his jeans. He says, "I can touch you. Then you'll know how to touch me."

Craig's face heats even more, enough that Tweek notices and kisses him before he reassures him, "You don't need to be embarrassed, dumbass."

"I'm not," insists Craig, mouth dry.

"Do you want to? Maybe you're too hurt," Tweek remarks and stares pointedly at the heating pad on Craig's bruised abdomen. He grazes his knuckles over the edge of Craig's stomach. The bruises are still a little tender, aggravated by Fosse's kick to his gut.

But they're not enough to keep him tingling at Tweek's light touch or his wet kisses or the fucking _stare_ that he's giving Craig that makes him look like he wants to eat Craig for dinner.

"Of course I fucking want to," Craig finally says. He pauses for a moment and then adds, indicating to the heating pad, "Can I keep this on while you, um, touch me."

"Mm," is how Tweek responds. His fingers wander down and he undoes the fly on Craig's jeans, pulling them slowly down his legs. He balls them up and lets the jeans fall to the floor. Tweek seems to be avoiding sudden movements, as though he's treating Craig's slight nervousness as Craig being a frightened wild animal.

Tweek rubs Craig through his underwear, making careful, calculated movements. His tongue sticks between his teeth in concentration. Craig begins to melt, falling back somehow deeper into the mattress, feeling less aching in his gut and more lightning bolts of pleasure as Tweek works quietly. As soon as Tweek teases a moan out of him, he slips his hands into Craig's boxers and pulls them down, casting them aside.

Craig thinks he must look like a fucking idiot right now – t-shirt still on, heating pad covering his stomach, socks on his feet, and utterly pantsless with an erection that's throbbing like a motherfucker. Tweek doesn't seem to mind. In fact, his smile widens into a grin, and he strokes along Craig's cock a couple of times before he ducks aside, futzing around with the clutter on his bedside table until he finds what he's looking for.

A bottle of lube, three-quarters of the way full, makes this all seem so much more real.

Craig is no blushing bride, but he still tosses his head to the side and focuses pointedly on a row of action figures on the shelf across the room when his chest tightens with nerves. God knows he's probably shaking, especially when he hears the distinct _pop _of the lubricant being opened, and the sticky noise of it being squeezed out.

"Hey," Tweek says, "look at me."

Craig drags his eyes back to rest on Tweek's lamp-like green ones.

"Chill out," he soothes, smirking a little. He shifts Craig's legs to open on either side of his long torso. Craig reminds himself to do exactly as Tweek said, to chill out, to relax, but it doesn't work very well. He starts to tremble when Tweek's fingers rub around him, teasing a little.

He feels childish, but as Tweek pushes a finger inside, Craig searches blindly for Tweek's free hand. When he finds it, he grips Tweek's fingers and feels reassured, just a little.

The sensation is invasive at first, and Craig doesn't know how to feel as Tweek leans over him as he moves his finger, sliding back and forth in gentle strokes. He holds Craig's gaze as he does, and Craig is certain whether or not it's meant to be comforting.

And when Tweek crooks his finger _just right_, Craig jumps, and snaps, "What the fuck was that?"

"If you paid attention in anatomy class, you'd know," Tweek tells him. He ducks down and kisses Craig's lips, opening his mouth with his tongue and sliding his piercing along the edges of Craig's mouth. He presses again inside Craig, massaging and sending sensation everywhere. Tweek uses this as a distraction tactic for slowly sliding a second finger in beside the first. Craig feels stretched and a little uncomfortable, but then he supposes that it's supposed to feel that way.

And so he relaxes.

Craig concentrates on everything and nothing – every touch, every lick, but he doesn't focus. He doesn't think about the stretching, or the warmth from the heating pad, or how Tweek still tastes a little like coffee.

"Okay. Okay, stop," Craig protests on a moan.

Tweek draws back and asks, "What's wrong?"

"If you keep doing that, I'm gonna come," explains Craig.

"You can't come yet, you still have to fuck me," responds Tweek.

Craig chuckles and says, "Exactly." For a moment he lies still, remaining on his back with the heating pad on his stomach. He breathes deeply and finally works up enough energy to place the pad on Tweek's bedside table and clamber up onto his knees. The movement forces Craig to remember that he's achey and sore, but he ignores the dull pain in his gut, because he's also horny as all hell.

Tweek moves to start pulling off his clothes, but Craig holds out a hand and stops him. He says, "Let me."

Craig pulls Tweek's t-shirt over his head. He's more solid in the chest than Craig is, with softness where Craig is spindly and hard. Craig skims his fingertips over Tweek's skin. He hasn't ever explored like Tweek has explored him, and he isn't certain where to start or what to pay attention to. So he begins with what he already knows, which is leaving hickeys on Tweek's neck. He kisses down from there, making careful, slow movements so that he doesn't hurt himself. He rests his forehead against Tweek's stomach, and only then notices that Tweek is quivering all over.

Craig wants to ask what's wrong without sounding stupid, but when he looks up and locks eyes with Tweek, his mouth opens without words coming out.

"Take off my jeans," instructs Tweek, running his fingernails against Craig's scalp.

Craig struggles with undoing the buttons on the front, but manages clumsily, and tugs the denim down Tweek's legs. At first glance, Tweek looks almost hairless, but upon closer inspection, Craig realizes that the fine blond hairs on his arms and legs are almost too light to see, the same color as his light hair. Inside his blue boxer briefs, he's hard. The sight makes Craig's mouth go a little dry. He wonders if he should tell Tweek that. Aren't you supposed to? Craig thinks he'd feel foolish if he said something like 'you make me so hot,' even if it is the truth.

"You're being very serious," Tweek remarks.

To which Craig replies, "I'm trying to concentrate."

"Well, don't. Just go with it," says Tweek.

"That's easy for you to say," mutters Craig, "You're used to it. This is the – the first time I've ever done this with a guy."

"You mean put your cock in a guy? 'Cause we've definitely been naked together before. This isn't new," Tweek answers.

Craig rolls his eyes and scoots up alongside Tweek. He runs his knuckles against the tented outline of Tweek's erection before stroking with through his briefs in steady, heavy movements. He asks, "What was your first time like? With a guy, I mean."

"Um," Tweek frowns, "When I went to the hospital after I freaked out and did this," he makes a vague gesture at the thick scars on his thighs, "I met a guy there. He was like, in his late twenties? He had the same thing as me."

"Schizophrenia," states Craig.

Tweek nods, looking a little less comfortable and in his element than he was mere moments ago. He goes on, "He talked to me lots when other people wouldn't, even when I told him to go away and leave me alone. And he was kind of gnarly looking, but he was really nice. When I first started living at the hospital, the nurses would come and get him because he was the only one that could calm me down when I got homesick. So I miss my mom, right? And he comes and colors with me to cheer me up. I kissed him. And he kissed back. We didn't have lube or anything so it hurt a lot, but he was really, um… sweet about the whole thing."

Craig asks, "Then what?" even though he's been told what he wanted to know, because the story only seems like it's partway through.

"He helped me make friends," murmurs Tweek. He tugs at the waistband of his underwear and says, "I want these off."

"Come on, don't change the subject," Craig says. He helps Tweek wiggle out of his underwear anyway, throwing them across the room. He grips Tweek's erection in his hand and pumps up and down steadily before prodding, "What happened."

"He hung himself with his sheets," says Tweek. He moans a little at Craig's touch and buries his face in Craig's shoulder, biting down like he might slip away if he doesn't hang onto Craig with his teeth.

"What."

"The doctors said he wasn't getting better," Tweek mumbles, "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Let's not talk about it."

Craig agrees reluctantly, "Okay," and decides to save his curiosity on the matter for another time. He tries petting Tweek's hair like Tweek does to him when he needs to calm down. He tells him, "I think it might be easier for – er, me to, ah – um."

"Finger me if I roll over?" Tweek says this against Craig's neck. He pulls away, turning his body so that he's on his stomach. He hugs his pillow to his chest and gives a small smile to Craig, pointing to the edge of the mattress. Tweek says, "Lube's over there, if that's why you look so lost."

Craig glares and snatches up the bottle, to which Tweek sticks out his tongue. While Craig coats his fingers in a dollop so generous that it drips onto the covers, he says, "Tell me if I do this wrong."

"You won't."

"Tell me, though," insists Craig.

He rubs his dry hand down Tweek's back, pausing to massage. His back isn't nearly as tensed up and sore as Craig's always is.

"You have a nice ass," announces Craig, perhaps louder than he meant to. He isn't used to paying compliments, but he still feels as though it's what he should do in this scenario.

It _is_ a great ass, though.

Craig starts by teasing Tweek like Tweek teased him, before he slips a lubed finger past the tight ring of muscle and inside Tweek. Tweek makes a sound between a shiver and purr, and pushes back up against Craig's hand. He's warm. It makes Craig blush, thinking of what they're doing, but perhaps only because he's never done something like this before. He works his finger in and out in a quick rhythm, searching a little for whatever Tweek found inside him that made him see stars.

Craig knows he's found it when Tweek jerks back and keens, clutching his pillow tighter against his chest.

"More," demands Tweek, wriggling back against the pressure of Craig's hand again, like he wants to do the job himself.

"Like, another finger?" asks Craig.

"Yes, another fucking finger," Tweek snips back, "How can you make that sound so un-sexy?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, your majesty," quips Craig.

Tweek glowers and says, "That's not how you're supposed to treat somebody you're about to fuck."

Craig mutters back, "Cry me a river," but he does as he's told, and pushes another lube-coated finger inside, blindly working Tweek open. He's encouraged to go faster both when Tweek begins to make his noises against his pillow, and at the heaviness of his own cock – and Craig realizes that he _really_ wants this. He wants to be inside Tweek and he wants to be surrounded by Tweek. He knows that it's intimate and that intimacy doesn't tend to agree with him, but he doesn't actually care. He wants it.

Tweek twists a little suddenly, feeling around on his bedside table. He knocks off the heating pad and a couple of balled-up pieces of paper before he finds what he's looking for, shoves it against Craig's chest, and says, "Do it already!"

It's a condom. Craig fumbles with it, ripping open the packet with too much enthusiasm and rolling it over his dick with little grace.

His first thrust in is too hard – aching spreads across his gut and he clutches at the bruises. Tweek writhes under him and pushes back when Craig doesn't make another move. Craig says, "I – shit. I think I need to go slow. Or I'll hurt myself. I'm sorry." Christ, he's so fucking awkward in these situations. He wishes for a moment that he could be Kenny McCormick, and that he could change from a scrappy, poorly-clothed kid into a suave libertine at a moment's notice.

"Dude, it's fine," Tweek soothes him.

Craig wonders if there's anything that he can do to make this better for Tweek, because Tweek likes it rough, and he can't provide – then it occurs to him. Craig reaches forward and tangles his fingers in Tweek's long hair, pulling it back as he draws out and pushes back in.

Tweek moans.

Craig yanks a little harder as he works his body into a rhythm, until Tweek's head rears back and he pants out Craig's name. Craig keeps one hand tangled up in that hair and lowers the other to Tweek's cock, pumping gently as they move in sync against each other.

Tweek compensates for the movement that Craig can't make without jostling his bruises. He presses back against Craig until he's fully seated. He clutches at his pillow as Craig handles him and pulls back on his hair. He whines and seems to turn into a puddle under Craig's ministrations.

Tweek swears when he comes.

Maybe Craig isn't as terrible at this as he thought.

He grips Tweek's hips, thrusting into him for just a little while longer, before he follows suit and shoots his load. He breathes heavily, softening inside Tweek. It takes a few seconds to collected the scattered bits of his obliterated brain, and slide off of Tweek, back onto the mattress. Craig peels off the condom and ties it into a knot. He tosses it and narrowly misses Tweek's wire mesh trash can. He's too lazy to stand and fix it.

Instead, he blinks over at Tweek, who's smiling.

They're in an afterglow. Craig feels different, a little bit better than he's felt for a long time.

"Am I supposed to um, hold you, or something?" he asks Tweek, abruptly realizing that maybe he's supposed to be considerate. That, and he kind of likes the idea of holding Tweek.

Tweek's smile inflates to a wolfish grin, and he answers, "I'd like it if you did."

So Tweek shifts into Craig's chest, and Craig loops his arms around Tweek. They reek of sex and sweat, and when they press together Craig realizes that they're both a little sticky. He doesn't mind. He feels almost as though he's floating, perhaps because he's nearly _happy_, or maybe because he just came harder than he has in months. Either way, it's nice, and Craig caves into it. His eyelids droop, and his body relaxes against Tweek's.

He falls asleep.

It isn't until much later that Craig wakes. The first thing that he registers is the voices that woke him, belong to Tweek and his mother. The second is that he's still warm and a little sticky, stilly pressed up against Tweek. When he opens his eyes, it's dark in Tweek's bedroom. Outside the window, it's nighttime, and the only light in the room is coming from the outside hallway.

"Craig, honey, are you awake?"

Oh, Jesus. Craig is naked, tucked up against Mrs. Tweak's naked son, and she is speaking to him. He freezes up, uncertain of what to do, until he feels Tweek shift against him and announce, "Yeah, he's up."

"Tweek," Craig hisses under his breath.

Mrs. Tweak evidently hears this and says, "Honey, I know that you boys have been sleeping together. I'm not worried about it. Your mom just called – she wants you to come home."

"Ugh," expresses Craig.

"I want him to stay," complains Tweek.

Mrs. Tweak rolls her eyes, and whether she's rolling them at Craig or at Tweek, he can't certain. She responds, "Pumpkin, Craig doesn't belong to you. He has to go. I'm sure you'll see him at school tomorrow."

"He does so belong to me," argues Tweek.

Mrs. Tweak ignores this protest and says, "Why don't you two get dressed? I'll give you a ride home." She closes the bedroom door behind her, leaving Tweek and Craig lying in the bed in the dark, their legs still tangled up together.

Tweek flops back down into his pillow, blowing a noisy breath out of his lungs. He turns his head to Craig and leans forward just enough to brush their lips together. He remarks, "You slept forever. I couldn't get to sleep. My meds make me antsy sometimes."

"So you watched me sleep," concludes Craig, "Awesome." He rolls off of the mattress and sits on the edge, scrunching the shag carpeting between his still sock-covered toes.

"No, I actually drew on you. I hope that's okay. Actually, it doesn't matter if it's okay, because it's already there. But it's washable marker. It'll come off in the shower. But you don't shower much, do you?"

Craig turns at that, scowling at Tweek. He looks down at his own body and finds that his right arm has been decorated in colorful illustrations done in Crayola marker. There are eyeless ghosts chasing an equally eyeless Pacman, surrounded by flowers with red eyes and sharp teeth. It looks kind of cool, actually, so Craig doesn't complain. He merely orders Tweek to switch on the lights while he searches for his pants.

But once he is fully dressed, he doesn't feel like going. If he could, Craig would wrap himself up in Tweek's bed and lie there forever with him. He wanders to where Tweek is scrambling into a fresh t-shirt with the name of a band that Craig doesn't recognize on it, and leans against him.

Tweek pets his hair and kisses the top of his head before asking, "Where's your hat?"

Damn, Craig misses his hat.

He answers, "I lost it."

Before Tweek can respond, his mother knocks on the door and asks if they're ready to go. Tweek calls, "Just a second!" and tugs his trench coat over his clothes, buttoning it badly but not caring, even when Craig points it out.

They load up into the car, and despite Mrs. Tweak's commentary of, "What am I, a cab driver?" Tweek still climbs into the backseat with Craig and kisses him, despite protests of 'your mom is right there.'

The drive is too short for Craig's taste. He doesn't want to be home, though that's nothing new. He wonders if the school nurse called his parents even though he went home with the Tweaks. He hopes not. He doesn't want to be in trouble for getting into another fight, particularly one that started on the basis that he fucks guys. And that he didn't refute the claim.

He kisses Tweek goodbye in the dark car rather than risking being caught on his well-lit front porch.

As usual, when Craig enters his house, he avoids speaking to the rest of his family, winds up the stairs and directly into his bedroom, and collapses in his bed. He doesn't change his clothes because they smell like Tweek, and for whatever reason, the smell of Tweek helps him go to sleep.

**o.o.o.o**

As South Park is wont to do, the rumors of yesterday's events have circulated thoroughly enough that the story of Craig's brawl with Fosse has probably swept through the school twenty times already, each retelling of the story recounted with newer, more exciting details. He sees too many other kids whispering and pretending not to look at him as Craig trudges toward the usual table in the back of the cafeteria. Kenny, Bebe and Tweek are all already seated. The former two are playing one of their favorite morning and/or lunchtime games 'Do You Think They've Fucked?'

Craig slides in next to Tweek, close enough that their thighs touch. It's probably too close.

Tweek doesn't seem to mind, or even notice. He just keeps drawing in his sketchbook, a creepy rendering of a long-limbed woman that has too many eyes on her face and too many eyes everywhere else, come to think of it.

"He's too much of a wimp to go down on her," Kenny says, pointing to Jason and Millie.

Bebe responds, "Oh, my God. You're right. Look at the look on her face. I bet you she's asked for him to do it, too."

"I dunno, I think she might be holding it in," argues Kenny.

Bebe turns and sees Craig, then. Her face lights up and she greets, "Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?"

Kenny prods, "What the fuck happened? Tweek says Fosse kicked you and you started throwing up or some shit."

"He left out the part where you two banged each other, though," Bebe observes.

"What." – is Craig's only response.

"We can tell," Kenny explains.

"'We'? You two finally an item?" Thank God for Tweek, successfully changing the subject.

Bebe and Kenny exchange a glance. After a beat, Kenny gives a shrug that seems to have more care in it than he intended and says, "I guess. I mean, if you want to."

Bebe smiles. It's a little gross to watch, actually. It's one of those intimate-without-touching moments that Craig hates seeing, and hates experiencing even more. He's hardly surprised when Bebe turns a bit pink and answers, "Yeah, I'd like that."

Kenny snakes his arm around her waist, pretending not to be as happy as he is.

"Gross," says Craig.

"So, who topped?" asks Bebe. She folds her hands under her chin and gives Craig and Tweek a cloying smile.

"None of your damn business," answers Craig. Tweek's hand is on his knee, though he's pretending that it isn't. He continues to draw his odd drawing. Instead of making Craig uncomfortable Tweek's art has in the past, it makes him feel _right_, like he's in the place where he belongs. He doesn't mean to, but he ends up edging closer into Tweek, and catches a whiff of that same scent that he went to sleep smelling.

The warning bell rings, then, snapping Craig out of his trance. He and Tweek didn't even have enough time to makeout in one of the back stairways, for which he feels a twinge of regret.

Craig promptly remembers that he doesn't want to get too reliant. He's falling. He has tripped over his own feet and descended into madness. He can't get close like this.

Shit.

Tweek gives Craig a wink goodbye when they part ways at his locker. He's going to be late if he dawdles any more than he already has. Craig collects his things and makes a mad dash for the American History classroom, promising himself that he'll stop thinking about Tweek, and how nice he smells. And the noises that he makes. And how nothing is quite as nice as falling asleep with him, even if he got drawn on in Crayola marker.

Craig slides into his seat just as the second bell rings, and with the sound, lets out a breath of air. He pulls open his notebook so he can mess around and doodle to get his mind off of things. God, he hates this. Can't his brain just stop while it's ahead? Naturally, as soon as he thinks terrible thoughts, everything wrong in his life parades into his daydreams and ruins anything good he might have been thinking on. Like bikes. Or his guinea pigs. Or Tweek.

_Fuck._

"Craig, there's a pink pass up here for you," Mr. Garrison says. He stands and slides the slip of paper over Craig's things. Pink passes are to the dean.

Of course – the fight with Fosse. His ass is probably expelled for that one.

And so, with that gem hanging over his head, he trudges out of the classroom and toward the offices, prepared to accept his fate. When he arrives, however, Fosse isn't sitting in the uncomfortable waiting area.

But Tweek is.

Craig opens his mouth to ask what the fuck he's doing sitting there, but Mr. Mackey opens his office door before Craig can make a sound and says, "Oh, good. You're both here. Come on in, boys."

Tweek and Craig exchange a glance, and Tweek shrugs.

No sooner have they parked themselves in the pair of chairs in front of the cluttered desk than Mr. Mackey starts to speak, "I assume you know why you are here, mmkay?"

"Uh," says Craig.

Tweek folds his arms and sticks his tongue out, clicking his piercing against his teeth before he answers, "Because we're guys that fuck each other and we punched the lights out of a bigot that called us fags?"

"Astute observation, Mr. Tweak," Mr. Mackey pushes his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. He laces his hands together and explains, "We know that Mr. McDonald is at fault for the incident, mmkay? But we also don't condone violence, even in defense. But, in light of Fosse's hate speech and your condition Tweek, we've decided to go easy on the two of you." – Oh, thank Jesus. Craig is so grateful that he's about a step away from getting on his knees and sucking dick in thanks – "We're short on hands for the technical work on the school musical. I'm assigning you and Mr. Tucker to the job."

"What," says Craig, "I'd rather be expelled."

"That's a little dramatic, wouldn't you say, Mr. Tucker?" Mr. Mackey pointedly says.

Tweek whacks Craig's arm and nods, "We'll do it."

"That's what I like to hear, boys. You'll report to the auditorium right after school, mmkay? I'll let the theatre teacher know that you're coming. It's settled. Now I want you to go back to your classes, mmkay? And for the love of God, Craig, can you try not to get into any more fights?"

As they slog from the office, Craig yanks on the sleeve of Tweek's trench, pulling him down so that their heights are equal. Tweek's eyes go a little glazed, as though he's expecting to be kissed. Instead, Craig hisses, "Why the fuck did you tell him we'd do that."

Tweek pecks a kiss onto Craig lips and answers with an impish gleam in his big eyes, "We can make out on the catwalks."

Craig pauses and mulls this over. He leans forward, nudging Tweek in the opposite direction of their classes and instead toward one of the sets of back stairs. He concedes, "I do like the sound of that."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you as always to my wonderful reviewers: lilykinz200, w0rmsign, WizerdBeards, koolaidrihha, MariePierre, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, DahmerEatsRainbows, KrakenRepellent, Crazy88inator, prettyoddrydonfan, DevilMakesThree, bluesnow, Cchall, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, mallorymichael, KirstenTheDestroyer, Atoxiclullaby1, Reverse Psychology, Bubbl3wrapguy, Porn Mercenary, and Mysterion. **

**I also have an announcement. I already posted about this on tumblr if you follow me there – After this story and my Big Bang fic are completed, I am taking an indefinite break from chapter fic. It's for the same reason that the breaks between updates have been getting longer. I've had a lot of recent things come up in my life and I can't keep up with my fics like I used to be able to. I'll still be posting oneshots from time to time, but after this is completed, I'm going to be focusing on myself and my original writing.**

**Thank you so much for your support through all of my work!**


	14. City Walls of Dying Dreams

**Chapter Track: One Headlight – The Wallflowers**

Upon being delivered the punishment of doing technical work on the school's production of South Pacific, Craig's schedule transforms into a terrifying miasma of chaotic responsibilities. Every moment that he is not at school, he works at Tweak Bros. Every second that he is not at work, he hauls around props and learns how to work the lighting for the auditorium. Within the time that Craig has to breathe, he scrambles to finish an acceptable amount of homework, and fuck around with Tweek.

Exhaustion has overtaken him whenever he stops moving. He managed to piss off Tweek when he fell asleep on Tweek's bed before they even removed their clothing. He didn't wake until Mrs. Tweak came in to tell Craig that his mother had called and wanted him home immediately.

His mother has been an enormous pain in his ass recently, and Craig has decided that it has everything to do with the amount of time that he is spending with Tweek.

"People might think you're…_funny_, Craig," she'd accused him mid-lecture last weekend.

To this, Craig had responded, "A fag, mom?" and turned back to his bedroom. A part of him had wanted, and still wants, to confirm that he's 'funny.' Craig isn't ashamed in the least of Tweek or what he and Tweek do together, but his family is determined that it is. He's learned that sometimes it's better to keep his mouth shut. In this instance, this is precisely what he will do.

"Hey, asshole," greets Tweek, as Craig plops down between him and Bebe outside, where they're smoking. Tweek has nicked a real cigarette from somebody and is smoking contentedly.

Without returning the greeting, Craig pulls out his own package of cigarettes and lights one already half-smoked. When he exhales his first drag, he finally leans over to kiss along Tweek's neck. He mumbles, "You have any coffee?"

"Yeah, I made you your own damn thermos, this time," Tweek says. He pulls the same thermos that he prepared for Craig on their venture out to paint on the walls of City Wok. To Tweek's dismay, Craig has been stealing sips of his morning coffee, sips amounting to a solid half of the thermos that Tweek fills for himself every morning.

Craig is infinitely grateful for the thought, and chugs down a few gulps of warm black coffee before he leans his head on Tweek's shoulder. He's so tired that he can barely keep his eyes open, and if he falls asleep one more time in American History, Garrison will surely force detention on him. That would take too much time, time that Craig doesn't have to spare. He's spending every moment of his free time remembering how to survive.

Surviving has consisted mainly of extensive doses of caffeine and plates of overcooked Pizza Rolls.

"I made something for you," Tweek says.

Craig lifts a brow, inhaling a single drag before he states, "Made something." Tweek has been making him trinkets for weeks, now. Craig pretends to be less impressed than he is. He prays that Tweek never discovers that he has arranged every little gift on his desk in his bedroom so that it is properly displayed. So far, Craig has collected three drawings (one unflattering depiction of Craig himself, one of a couple of cartoon rabbits with mohawks, and one of his usual eyeless ghouls), a clay guinea pig (Craig's personal favorite of the gifts), two paper cranes, and a bracelet of plastic blue and red beads.

Tweek digs around on the inside of his trench coat. He extracts a blue bundle and drops it in Craig's lap, where it unfurls.

It's a hat.

It is identical to the hat that Craig lost, blue with a fat yellow pompom on the top and yellow and blue braids ending in tassels. The difference is that the colors are brighter, and it looks newer.

Tweek blinks at Craig expectantly, and in return, Craig yanks his hat over his head.

"You made it," states Craig, not quite believing it.

Tweek smiles a little and crushes his cigarette butt underneath his boot. He runs his hands through his hair and tugs gently on the ends as he replies, "My mom taught me how to knit. I used to do it a lot more when I was like, twelve. I didn't have any other way to let go of my stress."

"Well," Craig says, unable to think of much else to say to the gesture, "Thanks." He feels as though the gesture warrants something more than a simple _thank you_, and so he coils his arm around Tweek's broad shoulders, and placing a smacking kiss over Tweek's lips, despite the ring of smoking onlookers.

"You guys are so _sweet_," Bebe says.

"We'll work on fixing that," Craig quips back, as soon as he draws away from Tweek's mouth, which tastes exactly as his own does, of cigarette smoke and black coffee.

Tweek nurses his thermos and puts in, "We're a lot grosser in private."

"Tragically, it's thought of as socially unacceptable to screw in the middle of a schoolyard," Craig adds.

Tweek frowns a little at this and remarks, "I wish it were socially acceptable. Then you could fuck me a lot more."

Craig imagines that if he fucked Tweek any more than he does already that he would keel over and die. He's been so exhausted throughout the past weeks that he's barely been able to do little more than drag his feet through his days, jam-packed with tedious tasks broken up only by the short times he has with Tweek to smoke and have sex and watch more of the weird films that Tweek enjoys.

Instead of commenting on the fact that Craig is much too exhausted to even think of the physical exertion of sex, he leans his head (happily newly-hatted) on Tweek's shoulder again and thinks about how incredible being wrapped up in his own blankets and being peacefully asleep sounds.

"Dude, you okay?" asks Kenny, peering from behind Bebe's bodacious curves to stare where Craig is tempted to fall asleep.

Craig rubs at his eye and mumbles, "Yeah, just really tired."

"Have you been getting enough sleep, honey?" asks Bebe.

"I overslept every day this fucking week," mumbles Craig. As if to punctuate his claim, the warning bell rings. With a shudder, he extracts himself from Tweek's grips and stands. He trudges off without so much as a goodbye, shivering against the cold, and feeling relieved when the school's heating system hits him.

He's been feeling lightheaded and dizzy all this week. Craig wonders if it's a bug. He never gets grievously ill, perhaps a side effect of never wanting to be in his home – the downside is that when he does get sick, he gets all groggy and barely functional like this. When he reaches his locker, instead of opening it, he rests his forehead against the cool metal and prays for the day to end quickly. He knows that it won't – he has to work on the musical after school and has a couple hours of work after that.

"_Fuck_," he mutters under his breath, drawing out the word.

Craig gives himself another second of rest before he spins in his combination and gathers his books. He drags his feet to the American History classroom and sits down, willing himself not to put his head down on his desk and sleep for the next ten years.

Clyde prods Craig with the eraser end of his mechanical pencil and asks, "Hey bro, you doing alright?"

"Some bug," answers Craig.

"Must be hella bad if you're actually talking to me," Clyde remarks, unable to keep bitterness out of his voice.

"I'm too tired to argue with you," Craig responds.

"Maybe you should go to the nurse," suggests Clyde.

Craig retorts, "Maybe you should kiss my ass."

"Oh, good. You're already back to normal," Clyde dryly remarks.

As soon as Mr. Garrison has taken attendance, he sweeps into what he claims is a mandatory lecture being forced upon him about applying for colleges. He describes how Park County High has a dismal rate of graduates going to universities, and how they all need to "stop being so fuckin' dumb and get their damn shit together."

From there, class proceeds as usual. Craig ends up drooling onto his notebook and making the ink on his notes run. Some of the blue ink smears onto his cheek when the bell signaling the class's end sounds. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

When Craig climbs to his feet, a wave of dizziness washes over him. He wobbles and catches himself on his desk, panting. He feels winded even though he's done nothing but sit.

"Craig, can I have a word?" asks Garrison.

"Uh. I guess. Yeah," answers Craig.

"Not that I give a damn, but where have you applied to go to school?" inquires Garrison.

Craig sighs wearily and rolls his eyes, hitching his books up closer to his chest. He replies, "I haven't."

"That's fuckin' stupid, Craig," expresses Mr. Garrison, "You're no dumbass. I don't want to see you wasting what you have and getting stuck here working at the gas station or some shit."

Craig doesn't want to be stuck here, either. He always figured that after graduation, he'd hop on his bike and pack his shit in his backpack, and go anywhere. Anywhere but here. That plan doesn't exactly leave room for his guinea pigs, though, and he'd never leave his boys behind.

Fuck. He should probably do something responsible with his money, like save for a car. He could still stick with his plan of leaving for anywhere but South Park if he used a car. And a car could transport guinea pigs comfortably and safely.

And then there's Tweek.

The idea of leaving Tweek behind doesn't sit well with Craig.

With Tweek, he doesn't feel like such a hopeless asshole. Tweek is kind of a dick, too, so Craig doesn't feel as alone. And it's been nice – to have somebody's arms tucked around him. To have a warm bed to sleep in. To have somebody make him coffee and hats and paper cranes, and whose mom will feed him even when he isn't hungry.

"Craig?"

"Huh," Craig manages.

"At least apply to a couple schools," Garrison prods, "For the love of Christ, Craig. You can do it. I promise, life at a college in Denver or some shit is a lot better than this shithole."

"Anyplace is better than this shithole," Craig pointedly replies.

Garrison sighs at this and responds, "Amen to that."

Craig feels queasy as he leaves the classroom. He is certain whether to attribute his nausea to Garrison's willingness to help him, or his mysterious illness. He makes a pit stop in the downstairs bathroom despite knowing that he'll be late for English. Craig sets his belongings down on the counter even though it's wet and covered with sopping, balled-up paper towels.

Craig wets a towel and rubs it across his face. He isn't feverish, but he feels like he might collapse. Maybe he should skip class and grab a cappuccino from the cheap school coffee machine.

Before Craig can pull his cell from his pocket to text Tweek that he should skip class too, a wave of deeper sickness washes over him and he coughs into the sink. What comes up isn't vomit, not even watery bile.

It's blood.

In the mirror, his reflection looks like a freakish zombie version of himself. His skin is one shade above sheet white. Dark smudges are hitched under his eyes, and now there's blood dribbling over his lower lip, down his chin. With a helpless whine, Craig wipes the blood off his chin and onto the sleeve of his hoodie. It doesn't do much to improve his appearance, but at least he doesn't look like quite as much of a cannibal.

He'll find Bebe. Bebe carries around shit like Advil. He'll take some of that, and he'll get coffee, or juice, or something…and it'll be okay.

He splashes another round of cold water onto his face before grabbing his things and exiting the bathroom. He finds Bebe exactly where he thought that he would, holed up with Wendy in the library for her off period.

Bebe gives Craig a once-over and her brows lift high into her blond curls. She reaches out to touch his arm before he jerks back and asks, "Baby, are you okay?"

"Advil," he hoarsely says, "I just have a headache."

"Craig," Wendy interrupts, staring at Craig through disapproving brown eyes, "You look like you need to go to the nurse."

"And who the fuck asked you," Craig snaps.

Bebe glances back at Wendy and shakes her head before handing Craig a bedazzled pink pill box. He pops it open and shakes a couple of pills into his hand, dry swallowing and praying that the medication will improve whatever illness is plaguing him.

He leaves the library without a goodbye, even as Bebe tosses out a "Feel better, honey" and Wendy expresses her desire to forcibly herd Craig into the nurse's office. He can't look _that_ bad, though.

Craig's hands shake when he fills up the thermos Tweek gave him at the cheap-ass coffee machine. He pulls off into the corner of the cafeteria where the vents are, so the heat blasts into his back and warms him up almost as well as his own blankets would. He pours coffee down his throat like an alcoholic with a bottle of wine. He thinks he needs food in his stomach – since he overslept, he didn't have time to eat any breakfast, and he's been told that coffee on an empty stomach isn't the best idea.

"I figured you were skipping," he hears, and looks up to see Tweak, clutching his lunchbox with fairies on the front. He plops onto the floor next to Craig. He noses at Craig's cheek before popping open the latches on his lunchbox. He gestures to it and asks, "Hungry?"

"Yeah," Craig confesses, and he grabs the peanut butter and jelly sandwich off the top of the assortment of food. It's one of two sandwiches, and Craig can't help but wonder if Mrs. Tweak has been packing more food just to make sure that Craig eats.

He does feel better after eating, though no place close to normal. Tweek noses at him a little more but gives up when Craig doesn't respond beyond leaning against him like he's going to fall asleep.

Which is exactly how Craig proceeds for the rest of the day: like he's about to go to bed. He walks around in a zombie-like state of half-consciousness, scraping by in his classes with nothing more than dry wit and the fact that he looks a step away from death.

If he hears another suggestion that he visit the nurse, blood will be spilt.

He makes it to the auditorium in time to be scolded by Butters (who has a minor part and is the stage manager simultaneously) for 'being late, mister.' Craig sets to work on the lights after being told that he looks to sickly to be hauling flats or props, even the smaller ones.

After an hour, though, his work is finished and he's mostly dicking around, searching for something to do but being met with opposition wherever he turns.

"_Psst_."

Craig hears this noise as he stalks past the props room and toward the drinking fountain.

"Craig!"

"What. Who's there."

"Come see what I found," Tweek's head pokes out of the props room, but he looks reluctant to come out and show Craig what discovery he has made. When Craig takes a few steps closer, Tweek grasps his wrist and tugs him into the props room. He locks the door behind them, and triumphantly stands with a hand on each hip.

"Tweek, where are your pants."

He's stripped down to his underwear, which must be freezing in the cold, concrete props storage room.

And he's wearing high heeled, red lace-up boots that stop just below his knee.

"Aren't they awesome? They fit! I mean, my toes kind of pinch, but –"

"What the fuck are those even for," Craig wants to know, because the only logical conclusion is that they belonged in a Rocky Horror production, which he _knows_ would never happen in this conservative, middle-of-nowhere, Podunk town.

"I have no idea," answers Tweek, "but I love them."

"We're going to get in trouble," complains Craig, "Let me out."

"Not until you've fully appreciated the glory of my hooker boots, Craig," insists Tweek.

"Okay," reasons Craig, "they're very sexy. Now let's go."

"Jesus, can you at least _try_ to sound sincere?" Tweek folds his arms and pouts a little. This tactic works on everybody – Tweek's parents, the school's staff, Craig. Craig is willing to bet that it would even work if Tweek used it on strangers in the street.

Craig steps forward and pulls Tweek down by fistfuls of blond hair, smashing their lips together. He licks into Tweek's mouth, which tastes like coffee and peanut butter and jelly. He feels better when it's just them, and when it's like this. Just mouths and hands and hair and noises.

When Craig pulls away, he mutters, "I wish I didn't have to go to work."

"Don't let the boss hear you saying that," murmurs Tweek. He pushes kisses along the swoops and curves of Craig's face.

Craig protests, "You're not my boss."

"You're ruining my fun, asshat," Tweek says, but he brings Craig's lips into another, deeper kiss. These kisses from Tweek always mean that he expects sex. They've never done it in school, no matter how persistent Tweek has been in his desire to copulate in one of the school bathrooms. Craig refuses to give in.

Which is why he breaks his lips away and says, "Not here."

"Why not? There's a bed right there."

"That's a prop bed. It's probably from the sixties or something. We'd break it. And I don't want to have to do any work, okay?"

"You don't have to," Tweek insists, "I could always be on top."

Craig sucks his lower lip into his mouth in thought. Tweek has never let his desire to fuck Craig go unheard, though if Craig snaps at him or expresses his discomfort with the idea, he shuts up for awhile. He's blushing now; he can feel the heat on his face.

Maybe…he does want it.

Maybe he is ready.

And maybe Tweek does look damn good in red stiletto-heeled boots.

"…Okay," Craig agrees reluctantly.

Tweek eyes him suspiciously and says, "Are you sure?"

Craig nods silently, taking handfuls of Tweek's t-shirt and drawing him in for another kiss. He feels as though perhaps he should instruct Tweek, maybe say 'go slow' or 'please be gentle,' because Tweek likes it rough and Craig doesn't know if he could take that right now. He's lightheaded and tired, though now he's horny to boot.

Craig doesn't say a word. He lets Tweek guide him back toward the bed, which is a rickety brass mess and will make a hell of a lot of noise if they're not careful. It doesn't look as though it will be nearly as comfortable as Tweek's soft bed, or even Craig's bed. The mattress is old and the sheets smell like the entire prop room does, musty and unkempt.

Across the room, Tweek pulls his trench coat off of the floor, where it's piled in a heap with Tweek's discarded jeans. He digs around in the inside pockets, while Craig decides this will all be easier if he undresses now. He unzips his jeans and rolls them down over his legs, kicking the off to the side, where they slide across the concrete floor and bump against a three-legged chair.

Craig shrugs his hoodie off of his shoulders and spreads it out over the bed – like hell he's parking his ass on those sheets. They can't be the only students that have ever thought it convenient that there's a bed in the prop room.

Tweek comes up from behind Craig and wraps his arms around him. He's ginger with Craig. Even though the bruises have mostly healed, his abdomen is still swollen and doesn't look quite right. It's tender and hurts when it's touched. Tweek rests his chin on the top of Craig's head and says, "Hey, look. I know I've been kind of a dick about how much I want this, so I figured I'd better tell you that it's still okay to not be ready."

Craig leans his head back against Tweek's shoulder and musters a half-smile. He says, "You worry too much."

"If you say so," Tweek shrugs. He nudges Craig back onto the mattress. It squeaks underneath their combined weight, the brass frame groaning in protest. The mattress springs dig into Craig's back. He feels sorry for any poor sap that's actually had to use this piece of junk for a production.

Craig closes his eyes as Tweek edges up closer to him. He feels Tweek's hot hands, slightly damp in the palms, cup his hips and lifting a little, so he can pull Craig's underwear away from his body.

"Mm, how long have you been this hard?" asks Tweek.

"While," mumbles Craig, in no mood to pretend that he isn't turned on by the sight of Tweek in those ridiculous boots. He looks almost androgynous, slightly greasy with his long blond hair and slim build, those red boots making Craig's breath go short as Tweek crawls over him. The only giveaway is the outline of Tweek's hard-on in his underwear. His warm hand wraps around Craig's erection and pumps gently. He avoids Craig's mostly-healed bruises, a slight hitch forming between his brows when he sees the swelling.

But Tweek doesn't say anything about the injuries, to Craig's relief. Instead, he tightens his grip on Craig's cock and works harder. Craig swallows the lump in his throat and throws himself back against the lumpy mattress, trying to stifle his moans. He doesn't want them to get caught, but the thrill of knowing that it might happen anyway sends sparks of adrenaline through his veins. He smiles.

Tweek pulls back to the small pile of supplies that he arranged near the bottom edge of the mattress. An entire string of three condoms sits there. Craig gives Tweek a look and says, "We don't need _that_ many."

"You never know," responds Tweek. He pours lube over his fingers – Craig has gotten used to that Tweek carries this shit around in his coat. At first, he carried them in case anybody needed them (Kenny and Bebe being frequent condom moochers), but now he'll flash a little glimpse of a condom packet at Craig to signal that he wants to do the nasty – even if there are other people around. Or maybe Tweek just does it to taunt Craig and get a rise out of him.

Tweek scoots back to the center of the mattress, making the bed frame groan anxiously at the movement. He positions himself between Craig's legs, hoisting each up to rest on Tweek's shoulders.

"Fuck – that's cold," Craig complains at the touch.

Tweek pets a hand over Craig's new hat (which Craig has become immovably attached to in a mere handful of hours) as he pushes a finger in, looking focused. Craig tilts his head back and breathes through his nose.

A part of him can't believe that he's letting Tweek do this. Craig never thought that he'd trust Tweek enough to let him be _inside_ him, but his resolve on the matter dissolved in only weeks. He _likes_ this. No, he loves it. He didn't think he'd love it so much. At first it had sounded invasive and uncomfortable, something that Craig would have to be almost acrobatic to endure. But it isn't – it's nice. Tweek knows exactly how to touch, even if he is doing it at a torturously slow pace.

Tweek works Craig open patiently. He adds another finger and presses and massages. Craig tries to keep quiet. He succeeds for the most part, except for when Tweek finds that fucking _spot_ and pushes against it. Craig gasps and clutches at Tweek's arms.

There's a stretching sensation when Tweek probes with three fingers, something that hurts a little, but is negligible.

"Tell me if I need to stop," Tweek mumbles. His big eyes are glazed over with lust. He looks as though he might shatter into a million pieces if he doesn't get what he wants. His muscles are tensed in a way that Craig has never seen before.

Tweek wants him.

The idea of that used to make Craig uneasy. Only weeks ago, he didn't understand why anybody would want him, let alone Tweek, who, despite being strange, is kind of awesome. He doesn't feel that way anymore.

Against Craig's better judgment, his wits have flown out the window – he trusts Tweek. He knows how dangerous trusting somebody can be. They can break you in an instant. Eerily, Craig doesn't think that Tweek would do that.

"Don't stop," Craig hoarsely says.

Tweek nods, and smiles. He slides off of the bed, only to shimmy out of his underwear, which catch on the heels of one of his boots. He shakes them onto the floor.

"It's gonna hurt, okay?" Tweek says. He withdraws his hands from Craig and tears off a condom packet, opening it with shockingly steady fingers. He advises, "I'm gonna try and make it as good as I can."

"Okay," Craig says, but only because he feels like he should say something, and he doesn't have anything sappy or cloying in his inventory of 'phrases to say before getting fucked.' He doesn't have much of anything in that inventory, come to think of it.

Tweek rolls the condom over his cock. He pours a generous amount of lube over that, slicking it over himself with his hand and groaning softly at his own touch. He crawls back between Craig's legs, heaving him up.

"Are you comfortable?" asks Tweek.

"As much as I can be on this piece of shit," Craig replies.

Tweek laughs, gripping his erection at the base. He starts to push into Craig gradually, taking it inch by inch. It does hurt, a stinging sort of pain, but behind that, Craig likes it. He whines in his throat at the pain. Tweek hushes him and kisses him until their lips are swollen. With one final, shallow thrust, Tweek is seated all the way inside Craig.

Craig feels full. His body feels full, but so does his chest, almost overflowing with feeling. To contrast, his brain is empty and silent, floating as though it's on water.

Craig tangles his fingers in Tweek's long hair, tugging when Tweek pulls almost all the way out of his body, and pushes gently back in. The bed squeaks. Craig groans. Tweek sighs. They both pant.

Craig doesn't know what's causing his brain to melt and go all funny. His vision blurs a little as Tweek moves in a sure, practiced rhythm, careful to avoid Craig's injuries and keep himself in control. He rains kisses all over Craig's face – his forehead, his eyelids, his nose and his cheeks and at last his lips, where they breathe heavily into each other's mouths.

The room spins, going in and out of focus with Tweek's thrusts. Craig doesn't like it – he closes his eyes and pulls Tweek's hair, mumbling that he wants to be kissed. Tweek obliges. As their lips lock, Craig feels Tweek's fingertips skim over his side, reaching for his cock. Tweek takes it in hand and rubs, the rhythm mismatched with the movement of his body.

They've given up on trying to be quiet. The brass bed is screaming with protest with every dip they take into the old mattress. Craig moans helplessly, feeling like he should control himself, but unable to find the function in his mind that would do that.

"Mm, Tweek, I'm gonna –"

Craig comes, feeling a little guilty that he didn't warn Tweek in time for him to withdraw his hand. He hasn't come so much in ages.

Tweek follows almost instantly, curling in close to Craig so that he can suck his lips into a kiss and run his piercing along inside of Craig's mouth.

Craig's breath is so short that it feels like he almost can't breathe. The air is so thick, and it smells of sex. When Tweek's weight lifts from him he inhales gratefully.

"Shit, there isn't a trash can or anything in here," Tweek comments.

Craig hazily laughs and asks, "Where the fuck are you gonna put that condom, then?"

"Um," Tweek pauses, "Someplace where nobody will find it."

"Sick," mumbles Craig.

Craig drifts a little, wanting to fall asleep right here and now, even though he feels sticky and this mattress is the worst that he's ever laid on – including the bunk bed he had to share with his sister at the single Tucker family reunion he was forced into attending when he was thirteen.

He feels Tweek settle in next to him, realizing how fucking cold he'd gotten only when Tweek's body is there to warm him up again.

"Hey, Craig?"

"What."

"Can I tell you something?" Tweek wraps his arms around Craig and leans their heads together.

"No, but you're going to anyway," Craig responds.

Tweek pushes a small kiss against Craig's sweating neck and confesses, "I love you, like a lot."

_That_ causes Craig to open his eyes. He blinks over at Tweek, drawing his body away and says, "_What_."

"You don't have to say it back or anything," explains Tweek hurriedly, "I mean, I just – well. My mom always says that if you love somebody, you should tell them. So I'm telling you."

"That's stupid, Tweek," Craig clips. He doesn't know how to handle the knowledge that somebody _loves_ him. It seems like a lot. It seems heavy. Craig doesn't like it, and the lightness in his chest sinks into a low, hanging weight.

Tweek responds, "You're stupid."

Craig sighs and pulls himself off the bed. The dizziness returns when he stands, and he has to steady himself by grabbing onto the bedpost.

He and Tweek dress in uncomfortable silence, neither of them looking at each other. Craig's thoughts are slow and sticky and blurry – he can't make out what to think of any of what just happened.

Craig unlocks the prop room door before Tweek has even fastened his jeans, tromping back out to the stage. The rest of the actors and crew are cleaning up the props for the day. The thought of physical labor makes his stomach turn. Nonetheless, when Bebe waves him over, he goes.

"Take this back to the prop room," Bebe says, leveling a playful, knowing smile at him. She holds out a lamp.

Craig rolls his eyes and snatches the fixture from her. He parades off toward the room and hopes that Tweek has vacated it. Craig feels awkward and uncomfortable with the knowledge that Tweek loves him, and the shock hasn't worn off.

But before he can make it there, his vision goes funny again, turning black.

…When Craig opens his eyes again, there's a small crowd of people hovering above him. Tweek, Bebe and Butters are all standing beside him. Craig's head is throbbing. There are bits of shattered lamp next to where he's sprawled over the floor.

"Honey, can you hear me?" asks Bebe.

"What the fuck happened," Craig asks.

"You p-passed out," explains Butters, "Maybe you better t-take the rest of the day off."

"I'll call my dad and tell him you're sick," Tweek says softly.

Bebe goes on, "I'll give you a ride home, okay? Whatever you have, it's something nasty."

After a beat, Craig concedes, "Fine." Whatever illness this is, it's the sickest that he's been in recent memory – and not-so-recent memory. He doesn't get sick, so what the fuck is wrong with him?

Bebe hauls Craig onto his feet. He dodges a kiss from Tweek, who looks hurt, and slogs to the green room, where his backpack is sitting on one of the plastic chairs off on the side. Bebe insists that she carries it, and Craig doesn't argue. He's too damn tired, exhausted so thoroughly that he can feel it in his bones. He wants nothing more than to curl up in his blankets and sleep for a hundred years.

He almost falls asleep in Bebe's car on the drive back to his house. His eyes shutter closed and his head lolls onto the window. She has to shake him back into consciousness when she parks against the curb in front of the Tucker house.

"Thanks," Craig mumbles, heaving his backpack onto his shoulders.

Bebe frowns a little, like Craig saying thank you isn't something she expected, and responds, "Any time, sweetie. And, Craig?"

"Mm."

"Feel better," Bebe nods.

He gives her a lazy salute and wanders up the sidewalk, aimlessly searching for the spare key until he realizes that he put it in his pocket the night before.

Craig drops his backpack onto the ground with a solid _thud._

Bed.

He wants his bed.

Craig revises his earlier desire to sleep for a hundred years, and decides that a million years of sleep sounds much more pleasant.

"Craig."

Craig shakes himself back into the real world, looking up sharply. His father is seated at the kitchen table. His meaty hands are folded together. His expression is grim. Craig wonders if this is about being gay – that's what all of his fights with his dad have been about, lately. _Stay away from that Tweak kid, _his dad says, or _that Tweak faggot is making us look bad. You're a poor reflection on this family, you stupid fucking shit._

"Can this wait," Craig groans, unable to be polite.

"The hell it can," Thomas shouts, standing so violently that he sends his chair careening back into the wall. He lifts up a pink paper and demands, "What the _fuck_ is this, Craig?"

"Um, I don't know," Craig says.

"It has your fucking name on it," Thomas says, his face purpling, "Underage drinking? A fucking court date, Craig? What the fuck is wrong with you? You're a fag, and a criminal? Just what the fuck this household needs."

Shit. 'Shit' is all that Craig can manage to think. He's so sick, so lightheaded that he thinks he might faint again. His mind is so sluggish that when his dad storms through the chairs, knocking them down, and to Craig, Craig doesn't think to move.

His dad shoves him, and Craig falls down. He's dizzy, and he doesn't have enough brain power dodge the blow of his father's boot.

Suddenly, he can't breathe.

He can't think.

The air won't make it to his lungs. It catches. Craig clutches at his stomach and coughs, heaving and hacking. Blood is coming up from his mouth, so much blood. It's pooling on the carpet in a sticky puddle. When Craig's eyes roll into the back of his skull, turning his world black, he thinks –

Maybe he should have gone to the school nurse.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to all my reviewers: Crazy88inator, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, sadpeople56, mallorymichael, lilykinz200, WizerdBeards, KirstenTheDestroyer, prettyoddrydonfan, Kuutamolla, and Porn Mercenary.**

**A special thank you to sadpeople56 and KirstenTheDestroyer for some beautiful art.**

**This is especially corny, but I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my dog Cato. He passed away this weekend, and I can't express how much I miss him. He loved people and everybody loved him. I hope he's happy up in doggy heaven.**


	15. He's Asleep, but He'll Wake Up Soon

**Chapter Track: In Old Yellowcake – Rasputina **

Tweek drums his fingers against the table, watching as across the room, his mom makes Kyle and Stan their coffee. Stan likes raspberry things. Kyle like caramel things. Tweek wonders if this is the sort of thing that Kyle and Stan notice about each other, or if it's only Tweek that memorizes his peers' favorite flavored syrups.

It's probably just him.

It's always just him.

Except that for awhile – it _wasn't_ just Tweek. He had Craig. He knew that Craig wouldn't ever turn on him like others might. He knew he could trust Craig, and he loved Craig. Under all that show of hate and violent behavior, Craig was just as broken and lonely as any other human being. And Tweek got to fix him. He got to pick up Craig's pieces and weld them back together (clumsily, maybe, but Tweek thought he'd been doing a decent job), and make him less lonely. It wasn't just the sex, as difficult as Craig would find that to believe.

He did love Craig.

And now Craig was gone.

Okay, he wasn't _gone._

But he hasn't _been here. _There's a difference. Craig's body is lying on a hospital bed in ugly hospital clothes, with lots of tubes and wires coming out of it. Craig himself is elsewhere. He isn't in his body. Tweek doesn't know where Craig is, and it isn't for lack of searching. He thinks that perhaps Craig is sitting with guinea pigs, or maybe he's wandering around someplace wishing that he could ride his bike. But souls can't ride bikes. Souls can't do much of anything but wander and watch, and look for their bodies.

Tweek's heard stories of people waking up from comas years after their souls separated from their bodies, but he doesn't know how true they are. He thinks it's probably rare. And then he gets sad, because it's been three days, and Craig hasn't woken up yet. His body's sick, the doctor told Tweek and his mom, there are lots of things wrong with it. They tried to fix up his body. Craig was in surgery for a long time. He came back with sutures in his abdomen and head.

His body is alive, but the doctors think that they might have to kill it if Craig's soul doesn't find his body soon. Craig's parents aren't allowed to make the call, because everybody knows that Thomas Tucker did it, that he hurt Craig's body so much that his soul fell out and is lost somewhere. The police pulled Mr. Tucker out of Craig's house in handcuffs – Tweek wasn't there, but he saw because Eric Cartman took a video with his phone and put it up on Youtube.

"Tweek, honey?" his mom says from behind the counter, "Your father's ready to take over for me. We can go to the hospital now, if you'd like."

Tweek has been waiting all day for her to say that. She promised this morning at breakfast that if Tweek behaved himself for her shift at the coffee shop that she would take him to see Craig again. So Tweek did. And he did a good fucking job, if you ask him. He didn't even tease Kyle for wearing an ugly orange coat. He was quiet the whole time, and did nothing but color and stew in his thoughts.

Tweek hasn't been able to color like he normally would, though. The colors don't flow from his fingertips like they shoulder. Usually Tweek overflows with art, and when he puts it on paper or on walls or on whatever he uses as his canvas, he's just tipping himself over a little and letting his insides spill out onto the page. Now it's like there are blood clots at each and every one of his fingers. He can't bleed out art. It's stuck inside his body and the only things that come out are wanted posters for Craig's soul.

The one in front of him is kind of nice-looking. Tweek made sure to avoid red and green because maybe Craig's soul is colorblind just like his body, and wouldn't be able to see the pretty colors. Tweek used yellow, orange and blue instead.

_Missing_

_The Soul of Craig Tucker_

_Reward: Free Coffee at Tweak Bros_

Between the second and third lines of text, Tweek has drawn Craig how he knows Craig best: Naked, smoking, and riding a bicycle. It's a nice portrait, or so Tweek is inclined to think. Now, if only Craig's soul were around, Tweek thinks that Craig would appreciate it just as much. He pretends to be indifferent to the things that Tweek makes for him, but Tweek isn't stupid. Craig does like him, even if he won't say it.

Even if he didn't tell Tweek that he loved him too.

"That's a very pretty drawing, pumpkin," compliments his mom. She's looking at it over his shoulder. Despite himself, Tweek feels his cheeks heat up. He knows that his mom knows he and Craig had sex – lots of sex – but he doesn't like her staring at his detailed rendering of Craig's dick (accurately detailed and drawn to scale, but he's not telling her that).

Tweek smiles toothily up at her anyway and says, "I'm going to leave it next to his body so that his soul can find it."

She runs her hand through his hair with a weary smile and says, "That's a very good idea, sweetheart."

Tweek packs up his things and shoves them into his messenger bag before he follows his mom outside. She looks more frazzled than usual, and he knows that it's all his fault. He can't stop himself, though. He's been lonely and upset and scared, because they _can't _kill Craig's body. Then Craig will be stuck someplace always looking for it. Tweek has tried searching for Craig's soul on his own, but he doesn't own any soul-hunting equipment, and after each expedition he has come up empty-handed.

"Would it make you feel better if I bought you some cigarettes, honey?" asks Mrs. Tweak, as Tweek buckles himself into the passenger seat of their car and slumps back into the leather, feeling lonely again.

"No," Tweek says, because nothing is going to make him feel better. He's even been taking each of his medications meticulously every morning and meditating. None of it does anything. He still feels all cold and empty, like there's a distinctly Craig-shaped hole in his heart.

The drive to Hell's Pass is mostly silent. Tweek doesn't bother speaking because he has nothing to say, though his mom keeps trying to start conversations. She isn't even talking about things that she enjoys, she keeps bringing up Tweek's art and how proud she is of him, or how happy she is that he's getting mostly passing grades in his classes. He doesn't care about any of it. Tweek considers telling her about the art clots in his fingertips, but thinks that his failure to create will depress her, and so he just folds his arms and looks out the window.

Tweek knows the way to Craig's room by heart. He's been here every second that he can manage, because he doesn't want to be away when Craig wakes up. Because he _will_ wake up. Tweek tells this to the doctors but they don't look as though they believe him. That's stupid though, because doctors don't know about souls. They know about bodies. Tweek knows about souls. He tells this to the doctors too, but they never respond. They just look at Tweek like he should be locked back up in the mental wing. Maybe he should. He has art clots.

Craig's room has more balloons in it. Clyde likes balloons. He keeps bringing them and putting them next to Craig's hospital bed like balloons are a beacon for Craig's soul to find. Tweek doesn't know if balloons will help, but maybe his poster will. He places it in front of all the cards that Mr. Garrison's American History class made for Craig, because Craig doesn't care about those people. He's said so. Their classmates never gave even half a damn about Craig until he was just about dead.

People are always like that. They don't care about the wonderful things that they have until they're gone.

Tweek's mother hangs back, for which Tweek is grateful. He doesn't want her to hear anything that he has to say to Craig. Those things are private, the love things. Even if his parents are indiscreet about all the mushy junk that they do, Tweek doesn't think that Craig would appreciate public displays of affection while his body doesn't have a soul in it.

Tweek feels stupid for talking to an empty body, but he thinks that perhaps his voice will lure Craig back in, and he'll wake up. He has to wake up.

Tweek pulls up the chair arranged next to Craig's bed, the one that he's been sitting in a lot the past few days. He pets a hand over Craig's hair and greets, "Hi, Craig's body."

_Hi, Tweek_, he imagines it saying back.

"I was wondering if you could maybe signal Craig? I know I've been asking a lot, but I thought last night, do bodies maybe have pheromones or something that they can produce so that their souls can find them? Like bugs? Sort of like bugs, I mean. Pheromones are supposed to attract a mate. But I thought maybe they could attract Craig back to himself, too," Tweek explains. He's been thinking way too much about this, but he's found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He doesn't sleep well, and because he has art clots he can't paint or draw his feelings, he simply has to sit and feel them.

It's torture, and he doesn't like it.

_I don't have pheromones, Tweek_, replies Craig's body.

Tweek frowns, "Well, could you at least try? Trying won't hurt."

_Well, alright_, Craig's empty body responds. It's a little more compliant than Craig's soul is, though still just as humorless.

"I want to tell you something that I would tell Craig, if that's okay," Tweek goes on, "I know I've been doing that a lot. But sometimes seeing you seems like I'm seeing Craig, and I miss talking to him."

_Go ahead and shoot, crazy._

"Don't call me crazy," protests Tweek, "Okay. I'm going. Um, hi Craig. I know you're not in there, but I really miss you, and I was hoping that you would come back soon. And I know what you'd say, that I just want sex. That part is kind of true. I do miss fucking. I've been too sad to jerk off. It's making me weird. I mean, weirder than usual. But I miss more than that. I miss your voice, and I miss calling you names. I miss you pulling my hair when we're in the middle of class because you know I'll get turned on, like the asshat you are. And, um, I miss cuddling. And having you with me at the shop and after school with the musical bullshit. Nobody else appreciates the hooker boots, Craig. I got yelled at yesterday."

_This all way to touchy-feely, crazy._

"I said to stop calling me crazy!" Tweek exclaims, a little too loud, "There's nothing wrong with feelings. I miss Craig lots and I want him to come back. He's my favorite."

"Get _away_ from my son, you little queer!"

Tweek turns sharply to see Mrs. Tucker in the doorway of Craig's hospital room. She definitely looks worse for the wear. Her blond hair is unwashed and tucked into a ponytail fastened by a scrunchie. Her blouse is wrinkled and has a coffee stain on it, near the collar.

"Ex-_cuse_ me?" Tweek's own mother follows quickly behind, her high heels clicking angrily on the cheap floor, "I demand an apology. My son loves your son, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, Elizabeth."

"I'm not going to apologize. Craig is _my_ fucking son, and your hedonistic offspring has confused and corrupted him. I want you and your son out of here," Mrs. Tucker narrows her eyes and folds her arms.

She doesn't look like a nice mom to Tweek. She has mean eyes, and she just called Tweek names.

She's trying to take Craig away from him, Tweek realizes. The strangers in his head suddenly break out in chatter. They've been shockingly quiet since Craig's dad put him in the hospital. She's one of the monsters that's out to get the blood of the ones that Tweek loves. No wonder Craig has been so angry and unhappy – he's been trapped by monsters in the place he calls home, like a prisoner in a dungeon.

"You can't have him!" yells Tweek. He stands, stepping in front of Craig, "I'm not afraid of you! You're just a mean old monster. You can't fool me." It makes sense, after all. Monsters love stealing the skins of humans. Why didn't Tweek see it before? She must be wearing the skin of Craig's real mom, because a real mom wouldn't call Tweek queer, or try to take him away from Craig's body, or let her monster husband hurt Craig so much that he started to bleed on the inside.

"Excuse me?" the Mrs. Tucker-Monster lifts her brows and looks at Tweek like the doctors did when he told them that they don't know anything about souls – like he's crazy. But he's not crazy. This is real, and he doesn't understand why he's the only one that can see the truth.

"Tweek, baby, maybe you should sit down," his mom says.

"Mommy, I will not sit down. A monster has taken Craig's mom's skin and is walking around it," Tweek defends, "See! She has a mean face, and she called me names. She doesn't care that I love Craig or that Craig likes me, she just cares about how she looks to the rest of the town. That's how monsters are."

"How _dare _you!" Mrs. Tucker surges forward.

A squeak escapes from Tweek's throat. Before he can register what he's doing, he lashes out, shoving Mrs. Tucker away from him and away from Craig's body. Craig's body needs to be safe when his soul comes back. It can't be eaten by the monster that's wearing Mrs. Tucker, and it can't be touched by sadistic doctors that don't believe in souls.

"Tweek!" – Mrs. Tweak.

"You little faggot!" – The Monster.

Tweek pushes the Mrs. Tucker-Monster onto the ground and darts back to Craig. He doesn't touch Craig's body, because he could hurt it, and he doesn't want to be like Craig's scary parents, that hurt his body and pretend like they haven't to keep up appearances.

Nurses appear in the room, and Tweek points at Mrs. Tucker on the floor, he shouts, "She's a monster! She's trying to eat Craig's body! You have to stop her!"

But instead of going for The Monster, the nurses come for him. Tweek's mom looks like she might burst into tears when they grab his arms. He tries to shove them off, but both nurses are sturdy people, and hold him place.

"That kid is fucking crazy," Mrs. Tucker says, brushing herself off.

"You aren't supposed to be here, Mrs. Tucker," one of the nurses says. The court ordered it. Tweek knows that. At least the justice system is on his side, unlike these assholes in scrubs.

Tweek struggles against their grip, but they hold him firmly. He protests, "Let me go! I'm not the monster! You have the wrong person! _I want my Craig_!"

Tweek's mom follows swiftly behind him and explains, babbling on about Tweek's condition and how he should be taking his medications, that they should be working, that she doesn't understand why Tweek has been triggered. It isn't true, though. This isn't like the other times when Tweek went funny. He knows those weren't real, now. This is real. There are monsters everywhere, and they're trying to kill Craig's body so that his soul can't find it ever again.

Against his will, he starts crying. He's confused, and scared, and doesn't understand why they're taking him away. He hasn't even done anything wrong. It's wrong to push _people_, not _monsters. _

"Mommy, what's going on? Why didn't they get the monster? What if Craig gets hurt?"

His mom bargains with nurses, and they let him run to her. She wraps her arms around Tweek's waist and lets him rest his head on her shoulder. Their position is awkward because she's so much shorter than he is, but Tweek doesn't care. He sniffles into her shoulder and asks again, feeling slightly more calm, "What's happening?"

"The doctors are going to have to take care of you, sweetheart," she says, stroking his hair.

"But I didn't do anything wrong," insists Tweek, "there was a monster and I had to," – he hiccups and starts crying harder again – "I had to save Craig. I love him. Why does everybody think that I did something bad?"

"I know you meant well, baby," she soothes, "I know. Elizabeth isn't supposed to be here. That's right, honey. But you're a little sick right now, and they need you here for a little while, okay?"

And then they take him away from her. He realizes that they're taking him back to a familiar place, where he'll find familiar people. Tweek has done this before. He knows this part of Hell's Pass, where they take people like him. People that don't know the difference between real and fake, that try to hurt themselves or hurt others, like he hurt the monster. They must think that she's an actual person – that's why they're doing this to him.

The nurses take all his things except for his jeans and his t-shirt. They check is pockets and make sure that he doesn't have anything dangerous. They tell him nice things while they do it, and they give him a handful of pills with a Dixie cup to swallow them down.

It all happens so fast. Tweek starts to lose his verve. He starts to feel droopy and tired, and doesn't protest when one of the smiling nurses brings him to a room like one of the rooms he spent so much time in, a long time ago. He lies down on a narrow bed, clutching the pillow to him. He's going to go to sleep now. And they'll take care of the monster.

It occurs to Tweek that perhaps he has been betrayed. They've given him sedatives and have tricked him into complacency.

But he's too tired to do anything about it.

**o.o.o.o**

"C'mon, dude, cheer up," says Token, but he doesn't look anything close to cheery himself. He hasn't looked happy for days, his face set in a permanent state of seriousness. Token has done nothing but concentrate on his studies for days, letting his homework consume him to core. No fun, no hanging out, nothing.

Clyde doesn't blame him. That's how he's been, too. Except that instead of doing homework, Clyde has done nothing. He doesn't understand Token's kind of people, the type of people that pretend they're not sad by doing useful things like housework and writing essays. Clyde can't do anything when he's sad. All he's been able to manage for days is moving from one place to another, often from his bed to the couch downstairs, where he gorges himself on Cheesy Poofs, watches old reruns of Sailor Moon, and pretends that everything isn't as inexorably fucked up as it is.

So he snips back, "You're one to talk."

"Clyde, come on," Token exasperatedly responds, "We've gotta hang on for him, dude."

"Not if they kill him."

Clyde didn't mean for those words to come out, but they did, and now they're hanging heavily in the air.

Token doesn't try to cheer him up anymore.

They park silently in the visitor's lot at Hell's Pass. Token hasn't brought anything to leave for Craig today. He did for their last two visits: A card, and then some balloons. Clyde has brought a new trinket for Craig every last day for the past three days. Today, he brought a plastic dinosaur from his collection. It's a brontosaurus – Clyde has several of them, and he can spare one for Craig. When Craig wakes up and sees the dinosaur, he'll know that Clyde has been there. And maybe he'll feel reassured.

A couple of nurses look at Token and Clyde as they slip into Craig's room like the might try and cause trouble.

Craig looks exactly like he has for days. All hooked up to machines with an IV in his arm. He's breathing – thank God he doesn't need a machine for hat – but he looks dead.

Clyde has burst into tears the past few times he's visited. He thought that he'd be okay this time, but he's sensitive, and he doesn't know how to handle seeing Craig on a hospital bed, looking all shriveled up and small and pale.

"Come _on_, Clyde," Token says, when Clyde sniffles, and his eyes go all watery, "I thought we were past this."

"We're not," Clyde responds tearfully, "Nobody wants to talk about it – nobody wants to talk about how we should have – should have known. We should have done something. But I didn't know, and I didn't help him, and I –"

"I know, man," Token stops Clyde by holding up a hand. He shakes his head and stares at Craig, hard, before saying, "I wish I could have helped him, too."

"He wouldn't have let us," whispers Clyde. He clutches the dinosaur tighter in his fist, and wills the tears back into his eyes.

Token purses his lips and agrees, "I would have _made_ him let us."

"He would have punched you."

"And I would have taken it," Token says, "Fuck." He rubs at his temple, looking guilty.

Clyde sets the dinosaur next to Craig's cards. There's a new one. Clyde almost smiles at it. Tweek has been here today, too. He frowns, though, when he reads the text. _Missing: The Soul of Craig Tucker. Reward: Free coffee at Tweak Bros. _His soul isn't missing, though, it's just trapped in a banged-up body.

"I brought you a dinosaur," Clyde informs Craig's still form. Craig, naturally, says nothing, and so Clyde goes on, "I thought you might," – and tears break free again, despite Clyde's best efforts not to be the token crybaby – "might need some company when you wake up. I asked the nurses if I could spend the night, and they keep saying no."

Maybe Craig won't wake up, though.

The possibility hangs over their heads, but they don't want to speak of it. If they talk about it, it feels too real. Clyde doesn't want to have to handle the reality of death, even if he knows that it's there, lying in wait.

And if Craig doesn't wake up, then he might need a dinosaur to take up to heaven.

As prickly a bastard as Craig is, Clyde knows that he's going to go to heaven. Before their friendship fell to pieces, Craig would let Clyde cry in his lap whenever he wanted. And okay, he teased Clyde about all the tears and feelings, but Clyde knows that Craig always meant well. When Annie rejected Clyde outright in ninth grade, Craig held Clyde for a straight hour, and then brought him beer and popcorn. They watched a bunch of spaghetti westerns together, because Clyde's dad is a bit of a buff and has a collection of the cheesy flicks. They remind Clyde of being little, like Sailor Moon does. And when he was little, everything made so much more sense. He likes feeling like a kid again. He wishes he could be one again.

He's still a kid, he guesses. But he's too aware of the world, now. He knows that people bomb other people. That people still judge each other based on skin, sex, and who you have sex with. He knows that his best friend got the shit beaten out of him so badly and so consistently that he started to bleed inside his body.

He knows that Craig never told anybody.

Except – Tweek.

Because Clyde wasn't there. Clyde is too much of a fucking pushover sometimes. He should have barged back into Craig's life whether or not he liked it. He should have asserted the fact that he's Craig Tucker's best friend, and that nobody can take that away from him.

Token slips past Clyde, where he's wobbling and falling apart – again. He stands at Craig's bedside, hovering over their friend like he doesn't know if it's okay to touch him or not. Token reaches out, just a little, and sets his hand on Craig's. He says, "Hey man. Hang in there."

Token pulls back a moment later, like he's worried that he might get too sentimental. That he'll get like Clyde's been. Clyde expects him to walk out, but instead, Token draws Clyde into a hug. It's one of those man-hugs, with shoulder-punching and an "I love you, dude." It's not the most satisfying kind of hug, Clyde thinks, but it still feels pretty good coming from Token.

"Let's go, dude," Token says.

"Just a sec," Clyde murmurs. He steps back to Craig and squeezes his hand, which is cold. He says, "We need you, dude."

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey guys! A great, big thank you to my reviewers: w0rmsign, WizerdBeards, lilykinz200, princessbelle212, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, mallorymichael, Sexy And I Know It, NSRForevermore, ReversePsychology, Crazy88inator, FalloutAngel, KirstenTheDestroyer, Kuutamolla, Mysterion, prettyoddrydonfan, ****KanamyUzumaki****, and Porn Mercenary.**

**A special thank you to lilykinz200 for some lovely art.**

**Thank you all for your kind messages about my dog, by the way. I doubt I'll stop missing him, but knowing I have great people there for me has really helped. **

**Also I know I've used the chapter track before, but I feel like the song is so perfectly dissonant and really fits this chapter. **


	16. Bright Red

**Chapter Track: Love Bug – Marcy Playground**

At first, Craig registers very little.

There's some sound around him. The buzz of fluorescent lights. Machines beeping. All kinds of footsteps – shuffling, hurried, leisurely, heeled – all on a hard floor.

His next expectation is that he should be on a hard floor, too. He tries to dredge up the last place he remembers being, and the first location that comes to mind is backstage at Park County High. But that can't be right – he's comfortable. At least, more comfortable than he would be on a concrete floor. He's warm. Though his back doesn't hurt like a floor might have done, he feels stiff and strange.

Wherever Craig is, it smells blank. Like nothing.

It's the lack of smell that finally makes him open his eyes. His vision swims and refuses to focus. He scrambles through his brain, pulling memories out like files and tossing them away in a flurry of paper when he comes up short of anything useful.

Craig passed out on the floor backstage.

Bebe gave him a ride home.

Holy shit.

Is he _dead_?

Still nothing is in focus. His surroundings are bright white, like he's stuck in a void.

"Mr. Tucker?"

_Mr. Tucker. Mr. Tucker. Mr. Tucker. _

It echoes in his head. Craig turns to see where the voice is coming from, and sees the watery figure of another person, finally something for his eyes to tune in on. The man is in white, and Craig begins to wonder how the fuck he ended up in Heaven – and then he worries about what happened to Tweek now that he's dead, and what happened to Clyde. God, they haven't spoken to him in a year now, but he likes to imagine that the Donovans might be just a little sad.

"Can you hear me?"

_Can you hear me? Can you hear me?_

"Yeah," answers Craig. His voice comes from his throat as no more than a whisper, barely breathed out. What the fuck?

"How are you feeling?" he's asked.

When the woman comes into focus, Craig's first observation is that she's certainly no angel – but he doesn't think that Hell is all bright white. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, and graying in the front. She wears a white lab coat.

A doctor?

A doctor.

That would mean –

"Am I in the hospital?" sputters Craig. Or, rather, he tries to sputter. His voice is wispy and unused.

"Yes, Craig, you're at Hell's Pass," she responds.

"So I'm not dead," he says, merely to confirm the status of his being.

The doctor smiles at him and says, "You're a little scuffed up, but to my knowledge, you're as alive as I am. And it's sheer dumb luck that you are, Mr. Tucker. If your sister hadn't called nine-one-one when she did, you would certainly be dead."

"Ruby," states Craig.

"Yes, your sister alerted us just in the nick of time," nods the doctor.

"Ruby called nine-one-one," Craig repeats. Why the fuck would she do that? She's spent her entire life ignoring what happens between Craig and their father, pretending that it doesn't exist and living up to her reputation as the good Tucker.

"She sure did," she answers, "And that reminds me – I have some good news to start you off with. You'll never have to see your parents again. Your father was arrested shortly before the ambulance arrived to collect you, and though your mother made bail, there's a court-ordered restraining order that she can't be anywhere near you, dear."

"What."

The doctor pauses, unsure of how to continue. After a few seconds of silence, she launches into, "Your recovery will be slow, I'm afraid. Now that you're lucid, we'll want to monitor your health here for awhile. When you're discharged, you'll be taken to the Donovans. Your sister is there now."

Craig croaks, "Everybody knows about this?"

"Well –"

"About – about my dad, about what he did? Everybody _knows_? How the fuck could you people do that to me? I don't want anybody to fucking know!" Craig's voice, though scratchy, gains volume, and soon he's shouting.

"Mr. Tucker, there's no need to shout. You should be glad that –"

"Glad!" he wants to fly out of his bed and sock the woman in the face, doctor or not. He feels rage build up from the inside and flow out on the outside, all-consuming as fire. Despite his fury, however, he feels too weak to move. He's stiff and exhausted and feels almost like he can't breathe. In spite of this, he shouts, "_Glad_? Why the fuck would I be happy about everybody knowing how fucked up I am? Why the hell would I want everybody knowing about poor Craig Tucker, with his asshole dad and the fucking excuse for a family? I don't want pity! I don't want anybody to know!" Craig tries to tear himself out of his bed, but he's pulled back by the IV in his arm. The noise has already alerted the nurses, and two of them flood into the room. One of them holds him down against his struggling, and the other grips his IV arm, injecting something directly into the tube.

"What are you doing to me? Stop! Fuck you! Get off of me!"

But he starts feeling relaxed almost instantly, melting back into his bed. His protests die in his throat, and the doctor smiles pleasantly at him again. She says, "I understand that it's a lot to take in. We'll call the Donovans and inform them that you're awake. Just press that little button over there if you need anything." She indicates to a green button just barely within Craig's reach.

Craig sits back in bed and stews. Whatever sedative they gave him is muddling his mind and making him float, but that doesn't stop the sparks of anger from flicking up at the thought of the entire town of South Park knowing that his own dad put him in the hospital. How fucking _pathetic_ can he get?

He tosses his head to the side, and instantly regrets it. At this bedside, a plethora of gifts spreads across the table and floor. Balloons float above slightly neglected-looking bouquets of flowers. Several cards are laid out with _Get Well Soon_ written across them. A sinking feeling opens up in his gut. All these fucking people know about his private life. It's been cut open and ripped apart for them all to see. Craig is torn between humiliation and all-out rage.

Until he sees two things.

A drawing clearly done by Tweek's hand, of Craig buck naked on a bike, and a plastic dinosaur.

He feels marginally less pissed.

Craig doesn't know how much later it is (his sense of time seems to be warped by the drugs in his system), but a familiar head of brown hair appears, followed by two brown eyes, and a shy smile. They belong to Clyde Donovan, who is followed by his parents – though they hang back at the door while Clyde draws up to Craig's side.

"Hey," he greets.

"Hey," Craig replies.

Clyde's smile widens, and he says, "It's been awhile. And you're being shockingly nice."

"I am so hopped up on meds right now," Craig says, "I can hardly fucking think. And how long has it been, exactly?"

"Four days," answers Clyde, "You were in a coma. Some people thought we might have to pull the plug if you didn't wake up soon."

"Maybe you should have," laments Craig. He knows that he's being melodramatic, but at the moment, he'd rather be in any situation than this one. The thought of the entirety of South Park fucking _knowing everything_ sends a shiver up his spine. He wishes that he could rewind, be back in his bed at his house, with his guinea pigs.

Fuck. His guinea pigs.

"Craig!" exclaims Clyde, "Dude, don't _say_ shit like that."

"Why the fuck do you care?" snaps Craig, "Just go away."

"No, fuck you. I am your best friend, and I'm going to fucking take care of you, damn it," Clyde slices back, "You spent so much time taking care of me. I want to give back, and I'm going to, so you can just shut up and be taken care of. Okay? Okay."

"Where are my guinea pigs," Craig asks, his voice sliding back into its usual bland tone, though even through the haze of medications that pump through his veins, he feels a yawning worry open up inside of him.

Clyde reassures him, "Dude, it's okay. Tweek and I went all ninja and got them out of there for you. They're hanging out in the guest room with some of your other shit. I've been feeding them and all that shit, don't worry."

"And you've given them treats, too, right?" presses Craig. He imagines that being transported to another place has stressed out his boys. They probably don't remember Clyde, and lacking Craig to help them through a move will have made them upset.

"Yeah, I think they miss you," Clyde replies.

Craig wants to hold them again. He feels disgustingly upset, almost as though he might cry about wanting his boys with him in this stupid fucking hospital to get him through this shit. He bursts out, "I miss them too," even though he doesn't want Clyde to know how worried he is.

Silence falls. Clyde fiddles awkwardly in his place. He looks as though he might say something sentimental, but instead he pulls up the armchair that's sitting against the wall. He says, "Lola shot me down when I asked her to prom."

"Lola's so fucking high-strung," Craig answers, "I think you need somebody more laidback. Like, I dunno, I'd say Bebe, but she's taken now or whatever."

Clyde smiles sadly at that and says, "I know. And prom isn't for like five months anyway, but I wanna get a head start, before any of the other guys start asking all the girls out," he pauses, playing with the strings on his red hoodie, and then says, "Hey, dude? Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," mumbles Craig.

Clyde rolls his eyes and responds, "Fuck you. I just – I mean – damn it. I was just wondering if, um, Tweek is like, treating you right? And stuff."

Craig tries to chuckle but ends up wheezing a little. Clyde frowns at him, but before he can express concern, Craig answers, "Man, why? Is there any indication that isn't?"

"As your bro, it's my duty to make sure that you've got your man whipped," Clyde responds sagely.

Craig wheezes out another laugh and says, "Ha. Nobody will ever have Tweek whipped. But yeah, I guess. He's nice and shit. Gives me presents and all that."

"As sugar daddies are wont to do," Clyde mumbles.

Craig lifts his middle finger at this, making it Clyde's turn to burst into a fit of laughter.

Clyde goes on, "Yeah, we saw your little shrine of the shit he's given you when we busted your guinea pigs out of jail. Tweek thought it was cute."

"Fuck you both," Craig says, "It's not a shrine."

Clyde smiles the kind of smile that says _I know you're full of shit_, but doesn't say anything. Craig appreciates that. Unlike Tweek, Clyde is finely tuned into Craig's I'm-done-talking-about-this scale. God, Craig is actually kind of happy right now. He's sure the drugs are helping, but he's grateful to have Clyde back.

Clyde puts his hand over Craig's. His palm is warm and sweaty (Clyde has always been prone to sweating without an apparent reason), but Craig doesn't mind. He doesn't move, because he likes it this way. He supposes that the notion of enjoying holding hands with his best friend is a little fruity, but fuck it.

"Craig, I'm really happy that we're friends again," Clyde says, as if reading Craig's thoughts, "It's been so fucking lonely without you. Token is awesome and all, but he doesn't watch Sailor Moon with me."

"He never watched Red Racer with me, either," Craig pointedly says.

They share a grin.

But the moment does not last long. Someplace outside, in the hallway, there's a commotion. Something sounds as though it's been knocked over, followed rapidly by shouting and the sound of heavy footsteps. Seconds later, somebody shoves Mr. and Mrs. Donovan away from the doorway and barrels in.

It's Tweek.

He's missing his trench coat, and is instead wearing plain jeans and a t-shirt, though he's missing his shoes. Craig barely has time to process this new development before Tweek hurdles toward him, exclaims, "Craig!" and plants a hard kiss directly on Craig's lips.

"Mr. Tweak! We _do not _kiss the other patients!" one of Tweek's pursuers shrieks. Tweek is pulled back away from Craig, though he struggles and whacks one of the nurses on the side of the head.

Following the nurses is Mrs. Tweak, who looks as though she doesn't know what to do – she's torn between telling her son that he needs to listen to the people in charge, but she also wants him to be happy, and kiss Craig as much as he'd like.

Craig intervenes, "Why can't he kiss me?"

"We're so sorry, sir. He escaped from our mental wing just a few moments ago –"

"Let him go," says Craig, confused, but happy to see Tweek (even if he is fighting off a pair of nurses like an animal caught in a trap).

"Excuse me?"

"He's my boyfriend," states Craig, "and I want him here."

That gives the nurses pause. They don't appear to have considered at all the possibility that Craig could indeed know Tweek and that Tweek is kissing him for a reason. They exchange some words over Tweek, who's still wriggling in their grip and clawing at one of their arms, and finally release him. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tweak is grinning like the Cheshire cat, likely due to Craig's use of the word _boyfriend._

"You only have a few minutes, Mr. Tweak. Then we have to take you back," one of the nurses says, flashing a smile that Craig is becoming increasingly more familiar with – an "I'm trying to reassure you but you're driving me over the edge" smile.

Tweek about dives for Craig's bed and kisses him again. Craig moves his free hand up and pulls him close. His medications are making everything feel so far away to him, but this kiss makes him feel a little more grounded.

Tweek breaks away first and says, "You found your body," which fails to make sense to Craig.

Craig responds anyway, "Yeah."

"We're boyfriends?" Tweek questions.

Craig doesn't know what Tweek is talking about for a moment, until he realizes that he told the nurses that Tweek is his boyfriend. It was the only explanation that his brain could come up with on such short notice and in its current state, and was much easier to say than "he's the guy I sleep with but I don't really know what the fuck we are."

Craig answers, "I guess. Something like that."

"Something like that," repeats Tweek, and he kisses Craig again. He pulls away and pets Craig's hair like it's the first time he's ever touched it. His face is less blank than it is typically. He actually looks happy to see Craig, which makes Craig's chest jerk in pain. It's a nice pain, though. He mumbles, "I missed you. And I love you. Where were you this whole time?"

"Outer space," answers Craig.

Tweek nods knowingly and replies, "That explains why I couldn't find you when I looked."

"Mr. Tweak, we have to take you back now," one of the nurses ventures.

Tweek glares and says, "No you don't."

"What happened to you," Craig murmurs, eyeing the nurses. He asks this upon the realization that he has _no _idea why Tweek is in the mental wing of the hospital.

"Your monster mom got in here," Tweek explains, "and I pushed her because she wasn't supposed to be here."

"You pushed my mom," repeats Craig.

Tweek says, "Yeah. I'm sorry. I know I wasn't supposed to."

"I was gonna say that that's pretty cool, but you can be sorry, I guess," Craig replies, "maybe I shouldn't be happy that somebody shoved my mother. But I hate her, so there's that." He leans up before Tweek can reply and kisses him softly. He tastes like cheap hospital food, but behind that, there's the essential taste that makes Craig's brain say _Tweek_. As though Tweek's kisses have restorative powers, Craig feels rejuvenated and less exhausted, even as the nurses gently pull Tweek away, and Mrs. Tweak reassures him that he'll get to see Craig soon.

Tweek waves an unhappy goodbye, shrugs the nurses' hands off of him, and tromps away with them flanking him on either side, looking dejected.

"Damn," remarks Clyde, with a low whistle. His parents pull into the room, looking equal parts surprised and pleased.

"Um, sorry," Craig says sheepishly to the pair of them, because he isn't sure what else there is to say. _Did I mention I like men? Also, Tweek is schizophrenic. I hope you're okay with a couple of dudes having sex in your house, because that's about to be a thing. _He feels himself flush, and inwardly curses himself for it. It's just that someplace inside he still cares what the Donovans think. He's never wanted to disappoint them, and despite himself, Craig wants their approval when it comes to his romantic interests.

"Craig," says Mrs. Donovan softly, "There's nothing to be sorry for."

Something in her tone manages to make Craig feel better. Before his falling out with Clyde, Martha Donovan served as a surrogate mother in many ways. She always asked after Craig's health and his homework, made him snacks and was always sure to make certain that he had enough blankets at sleepovers. Maybe she knew, somehow, that Craig didn't have anything like a real mom at his own house.

"The doctor tells us that you'll be staying at the hospital for some time while you recover," puts in Mr. Donovan, "She says it could be anywhere from a week to a month, depending on how you heal. You'll come home with us after that."

"I know," answers Craig, "she told me."

"We wish you would have told us, honey," Mrs. Donovan goes on, "about your – your father. We would have gotten you out of that house in a heartbeat."

"I never thought that Thomas was that kind of man," agrees Mr. Donovan, "and I wish I'd known sooner."

"I didn't want anybody to know," Craig says. He hears the edge in his own voice, the one that tells Clyde's parents that they need to back off. He doesn't want to talk about what went on in his house, though he's certain that they'll want him to. The Donovans have always believed that discussing hardships is the best method of getting through them, while Craig would rather ignore everything that's happened and pretend like it never did.

Clyde's sweaty hand tightens over Craig's, and he says, "I'm gonna hang out here for awhile, okay?" It's an invitation for the Donovans to leave Craig and Clyde alone.

They take the hint – like their son, the Donovans often pick up on little emotional cues that others miss. Mrs. Donovan leans down and kisses Craig's cheek, before moving onto her own son and kissing him, too. She says, "We'll be back in a couple of hours to pick you up, sweetie. I hope you feel a little better, Craig."

"Mmph," is Craig's only response, because he actually feels like shit.

As Clyde's parents go, Clyde and Craig are silent. Clyde looks as though he's assessing Craig, wondering what would be okay to say and would not. Craig feels the abrupt sense of being overwhelmed – he turns and looks at all the gifts that people have left for him again, all the cards and balloons and flowers, and feels sick to his stomach.

It's a concept that his mind can't quite process. Something feels caught up in the middle of the realization "all these people that you hate know that your father beat the crap out of you." How much do the fuckers even know? How much did they get told? Does their knowledge end with knowing that in the span of an hour, Craig was rushed out of his house in an ambulance, and his father was brought out in handcuffs?

"Do you want me to read them to you?" asks Clyde, indicating to the cards.

Craig grimaces and replies, "_Fuck_ no. I'd rather eat a pile of dog shit than read what a bunch of assholes have to say to me."

Craig thinks that Clyde might protest and reply with _they're just trying to be nice, Craig_, but fuck that, because his classmates never tried being nice to him before. Instead, Clyde takes out his phone and says, "You wanna fuck around on Youtube?"

Craig is relieved. He nods.

In the short space of two hours before the Donovans return to collect Clyde, Craig feels as though some piece of his fucked up existence has fallen back into place. Something has clicked back into where it belongs – and that something is Clyde. Craig has never been happier to be doing something as stupid as watching people on Youtube fall off of their bikes and have Clyde propped up next to him, sharing his pillow and laughing loudly.

When the Donovans appear in the doorway, Clyde looks upset that he has to leave, but submits to it. As he stands, he says to Craig, "I'll be back tomorrow, man."

Craig wishes that they could hug it out. He feels like he's been waiting to hug it out with Clyde for the entire year that he's lived without him. Alas, he's stuck to this stupid hospital bed, and all Clyde can do is squeeze Craig's hand in his one more time before dropping it, and following his parents out of the room.

The following days last much in the same way as this – Craig gets a variety of after-school visitors, many of whom he'd be happy never to see again, and has no problem telling to leave (Wendy Testaburger, for instance, who appears 'on behalf of the student council to wish him well.' He tells her that she and the student council should fuck off, but she leaves him a bouquet of sunflowers anyway). Clyde comes every day, but Tweek isn't supposed to come see him as long as he's locked up in the mental wing for his episode.

However, a couple days short of two weeks later, there's a knock of the doorframe. It's midday, the time when Craig tends to be loneliest and most restless. Everybody he knows is at school, except Mrs. Tweak, who sometimes appears in the afternoons with treats that she's snuck into his room without permission. She hasn't shown up today.

And instead of Mrs. Tweak being at his door with lemon bars or a Glad-wrapped slice of her homemade cherry pie, it's her son. Tweek is back in his trench coat and combat boots, looking better than ever. He sheds the coat and ditches it on one of the chairs before coming to sit next to Craig.

"Tweek," Craig says.

"Hey, dickhead," greets Tweek, and Craig grins at the name, "They finally let me out. And gave me back my stuff."

Craig feels as though he should say something. Maybe _I missed you_, or some sentimental shit like that. Instead, he comments, "And now you look homeless again."

Tweek snorts and whacks Craig's arm.

"Hey, watch it. I am _recovering_, you asshole," Craig snips.

A smile creeps onto Tweek's face, the kind of smile that tells Craig that he's up to something. He leans down and kisses Craig, pulling his fingers through Craig's dark hair. His lips are soft and covered in a fresh coat of chapstick. He tastes as though he just consumed a mouthful of his favorite Tic Tacs and swallowed them whole. Craig lifts up his arms and drapes them around the back of Tweek's neck to deepen the kiss.

Which is when Tweek climbs on top of Craig's bed.

It groans in protest at the additional weight, and Craig doubts that this is allowed, but he merely kisses Tweek harder.

"I could help you feel better," Tweek says, a glint in his bright eyes.

"Really," states Craig.

Tweek pushes little kisses up against the column of Craig's neck, all damp and soft. He sits up on his knees and pulls back the blanket that covers Craig's body, and inquires, "May I see your stitches?"

Craig lifts a brow and says, "Okay. Sure."

Tweek peels up Craig's hospital gown. Craig isn't wear anything underneath it, but it's nothing that Tweek hasn't seen before – besides, Tweek seems more interested in the sutures on Craig's left side than his dick.

"Do they hurt?" asks Tweek, staring hard, although not touching.

"Not really, at least with the pain meds," Craig answers.

"You should share."

"My pain medication? Fuck you. You can have your own meds when you get the shit kicked out of you," Craig bites back.

"I have a homeopathic remedy that works just as well," Tweek tells him.

He ducks his head down and kisses Craig's stomach.

"Tweek, what the fuck are you doing."

"Medicating," Tweek says. He kisses down Craig's abdomen, nosing at his hips and licking gently at them. It feels fantastic, but Craig doesn't like it – a fucking nurse could walk in at any second and see them there, and the last thing he wants is to have a hard-on when some pretty young thing walks in to check his vitals.

"Cut it out," Craig warns. Tweek doesn't listen. He presses a wet kiss to the tip of Craig's flaccid cock. Craig jumps, unintentionally encouraging Tweek by thrusting up into his face.

"Tweek, stop that."

"I swear to fucking God, Tweek. I will end you."

"_Tweek_."

"What?" Tweek finally responds.

"We are in a _hospital_," Craig emphasizes, "And I would probably sleep for a fucking day if you actually managed to get me off. I seriously don't have the energy."

Tweek frowns, looking disappointed, and sighs softly. He pushes Craig's ugly hospital gown back into place before arching forward to kiss Craig again. He licks open Craig's mouth and plays with his tongue for awhile, before he scoots off of Craig's body. Despite the narrowness of the bed, Tweek inserts himself on the mattress against Craig's less injured side, petting his hair.

They're definitely not supposed to be doing this.

Craig kind of doesn't care.

Because it's nice to have Tweek tucked up against him again, even if they're squished together and it's slightly uncomfortable. It's nice to have Tweek's hands in his hair and his breath on Craig's neck. It's all so hokey and sentimental that Craig feels like gagging, but it doesn't make his feelings any less _there_, doesn't change the aching in his chest that he knows has nothing to do with his pain medication wearing off.

"Hey, Tweek?"

"Yes, fuckface?"

Craig rolls his eyes. He turns his head to look at Tweek, and plants a kiss directly in the center of his forehead.

"I love you, too," Craig says.

**o.o.o.o**

Two days later, Craig is standing Clyde at the front desk of the hospital. He has papers clutched in his fist, strict instructions on how much exercise in acceptable, how to take his pain medication, but mostly instructions to rest. He doesn't like that he has to lie around so much. Craig misses his bike, and he misses sex, but he can't do much of anything.

He's sore when he walks, and can't make his legs go much faster than a snail's pace because of it. Clyde has his arm wrapped around Craig's shoulder to support him as they go (they offered Craig a wheelchair to get himself to the Donovan's car, which was _not_ going to happen).

"We've got everything set up for you, dude," Clyde excitedly says, as they meander through the parking lot to the car, several paces behind Clyde's parents, "Zim and Gir are going to be so happy to see you again."

Craig's lift up on one side at this. He'll be happy to see his boys, too. At least now he'll be able to piece his life back together into some semblance of normality. Now that he's out of the hospital, Clyde will be bringing him homework assignments and notes from his classes, which Craig will suffer through doing like the rest of his peers, until graduation. Nevermind that even the barest of physical activity exhausts him, he thinks bitterly.

Clyde chatters throughout the entire car trip, something that once may have annoyed Craig but is perhaps even comforting, now. It's nice to hear about mundane things, like the Valentine's dance that nobody cares about, about Heidi turning out to like girls, about Clyde being excited over the soon return of spring sports. Craig hopes that everybody is as focused on the ordinary as Clyde is, but he knows that when he shows back up in school again, everybody will remember what happened in the Tucker family.

A half hour later, they pull into the Donovan's garage. Clyde helps Craig out of the car, letting Craig rest his weight against him whenever he tires out. Chubbiness aside, Clyde is athletic and has a pair of the strongest arms that Craig has ever come across. He's glad, because Craig knows few other people that he'd be comfortable with helping him move around.

Especially up the fucking stairs.

The stairs are a lot of work. Craig insists upon walking up them, even when Clyde says that he could try carrying Craig.

Fortunately, the guest bedroom is the first door at the top of the staircase. Craig is exhausted by the end of them – panting as Clyde swings open the door to Craig's new room.

It looks almost like Craig's old bedroom did. The furniture is different, but his guinea pigs' habitat is set up in the same place as it was in his old room. Some of his things are set up on the new desk pushed up against the wall, including all of Tweek's gifts to him.

"Tweek and I stole more shit out of your house yesterday," Clyde explains, "And Ruby helped, I guess."

Craig makes a gimpy beeline for the guinea pig cage. They look up at him as he leans over and waves. Zim lets out a cheerful _wheek_ noise, and Craig strokes his fur with his knuckles. Clyde has taken good care of them. They look less stressed than he expected.

"Hey, guys," he says, "Miss me? I missed you too."

Clyde tastefully waits at the door until Craig retreats from the cage and sits on the edge of his new bed. Clyde has fitted it with his own old Red Racer sheets, which makes Craig smile a little.

"If you need anything, just holler," Clyde says, "And if you can't holler, I put my mom's dinner bell on your desk."

"So I can _ring_ for you," Craig lifts his brows. He wills himself not to laugh, because it was a nice thought.

"Yeah, something like that," Clyde says, "I just – fuck, dude. I want you to be happy here. And we're gonna take care of you and stuff, okay?"

"Don't get all teary on me, Donovan," Craig warns. He yawns loudly, irked at how quickly he became ready for a nap.

Clyde gives him a watery smile and says, "You know where I am if you need me. Get some rest, man." He pulls out of the room and closes the door. Craig hears his footsteps fall back down the stairs.

It's quiet in here. It seems so much quieter than Craig's house, where everybody's yelling at each other and something is always wrong, where the TV is turned up to drown out the shouts. Craig can hear the hum of the dryer downstairs, and the smack of the refrigerator being closed in the kitchen. He scoots back onto the bed. It's comfortable, but it feels different than his old bed. Less used. More clean. He slips underneath the covers and lies on his good side.

The Donovan's guest room is only a little familiar to him. Sometimes Craig and Clyde would sleep in here for the novelty of it during sleepovers. It has its own mini fridge and an ancient, boxy television that Craig doubts even has cable.

Though this is something he knows, it's still new. He tries to tell himself that this is his new life now, but the concept is somewhat unbelievable. No more kicks. No more punches. No more yelling. No more bruises to hide and bleeding to explain away. Just a family, with rules and hugs and warm places to sleep.

Craig likes this new chapter, though he's afraid. He doesn't want to get used to this, to the comfort and the love and the _normalcy_ of it all. He might fuck it up. Craig is talented at destroying good things without meaning to. He feels a sense of doom about managing to destroy this.

But he's tired, all the way down to his bones. And so, instead of dwelling on the dormant fear in his gut, he hugs himself to his pillow, and falls into deep sleep.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you as always to my fabulous reviewers! Your support means so much to me: lilykinz200, WizerdBeards, Yui 88, MariePierre, NSRforevermore, DahmerEatsRainbows, HumanKyt3, KirstenTheDestroyer, Crazy88inator, Reverse Psychology, TheAwesome15, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, w0rmsign, mallorymichael, Kuutamolla, FalloutAngel, princessbelle212, and sadpeople56.**

**A special thank you to sadpeople56 for some beautiful art!**

**By the way, if any of you guys are in Colorado, you should let me know if you're gonna be at Wasabi, AnomalyCon or Starfest. I'm going to all three and you should for sure hit me up if you're gonna be there to. :D**


	17. Laid Down in the Street for You

**Chapter Track: Symphony 5 Was A Surprise – Emily Wells**

Everything exhausts him. Walking across the room to say hello to his guinea pigs exhausts him. Standing in the shower for even ten minutes exhausts him. It was easier at the hospital, when he was on so many medications that he could hardly think, and everybody brought his food to him.

Then again, the Donovans do bring Craig his food. The first couple of days of his stay, Craig tried to brave the staircase for dinner, but the set of steps is too much for him. He tried, at first to use them to get back into the swing of things. However, when Mrs. Donovan found Craig sleeping at the bottom of the staircase, sitting in a slouch with his head leaning against the railing, he was instructed to stay upstairs. Clyde brings him his dinners, and unhooked the DVD player in his own room, hooking it up to the ancient TV in Craig's bedroom.

These days, Craig puts the bulk of his effort into doing the homework assignments that Clyde brings home for him. It takes everything that he has not to be pissed off and hurl his papers across the room. At least when he was attending classes, he had a vague idea of what the fuck he was supposed to be doing. Now, when he reads through worksheets and chapter assignments, he doesn't understand a fucking thing. To Clyde's credit, he tries to help, but he's a clumsy teacher, and doesn't understand all of the material himself – Park County High School isn't exactly abundant with teachers that do their job well.

It's Thursday afternoon, and Craig finds himself incapacitated after playing with Zim and Gir on the carpet and trying desperately to complete his science homework, which he gave up on and threw on the floor before he took his pain medication with a granola bar and slept for an hour and a half. Having admitted to himself that he is useless, he has come to terms with the fact that he doesn't want to do anything but sit around and watch movies, or dick around on the internet, mostly sifting through lolcats and finding new music.

A brief knock is followed by Craig's bedroom door bursting open, and Clyde peeling into the room. For a moment, Craig thinks that Clyde is going to leap on the bed and braces himself, but instead, Clyde just closes the door behind him, drops his backpack on the carpet with a heavy _thunk_, and crawls up next to Craig.

"How was your day?" Clyde asks, too fucking chipper for his own good. His breathing is a little heavy, like he ran home from school, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are tinged pink.

Craig closes his laptop and scoots it off to the side of his legs, where they're wrapped up in a blanket. He replies, "Well, Clyde, I began my day by jogging downstairs and making myself a wholesome breakfast. After that, I took my bike into the woods and practiced some jumps. Then, I trained my guinea pigs to jump through flaming hula hoops. What the fuck do you think I did? I sat on my ass and watched the entire first season of Law and Order, which you inexplicably own on DVD."

Clyde rolls his eyes, "It's my mom's. Wanna know what I did?"

"No," answers Craig, knowing that Clyde will answer anyway.

"I made out with Annie," Clyde answers, smirking a little, "and she gave me her number."

Craig gives Clyde a thumbs-up and says dryly, "Get some."

Clyde flops back onto the pillow unoccupied by Craig and sighs, "Fuck, I hope so. I haven't had sex in like, three months. The last time I did it was with Millie at a party."

"I think Millie's into you," remarks Craig absently. The idea isn't an unfounded one, though the crush that Craig has speculated about Millie having on Clyde may have already come and gone, since it was active only when Craig was last close to Clyde, over a year ago. Craig isn't good at figuring those things out, love things, but Millie did seem to _always be around_ at times, and always with an enthusiastic "Hi Clyde!" Then again, Millie is one of those frustrating people – much like Clyde – that seem to have an endless well of cheerful energy and bubbliness about them.

Clyde brightens. He asks, "You think so? She's pretty hot, and she brought me Chipotle this one time. It was really nice, actually. Oh – and she does this thing when we fool around –"

"Stop right there," Craig holds up his hands, "I don't talk about fucking Tweek, so you don't get to talk about fucking Millie or Annie or whoever the fuck either."

"But –"

"No," Craig says, putting the proverbial foot down. He does _not_ want to know about "that thing that Millie does," probably about as much that Clyde doesn't want to know that Tweek wore red , lace-up hooker boots and fucked Craig in the prop room at school.

"Fun sucker," accuses Clyde, a little pout on his face.

"Yeah, I suck a lot of things," Craig says absently. He laughs at the expression on Clyde's face, and the blush that follows. He playfully whacks Clyde's forearm and says, "Bring your Wii in here so we can play Mario Kart or something."

Clyde does just that, leaving and returning with not only his arms full of his Wii and controllers and the game itself, but a bag of hot sauce flavored Doritos and couple cans of Mountain Dew. Craig is fervently thankfully for these provisions – Mrs. Donovan has insisted upon making sure that Craig "eats right" during his recovery, and has gone through the trouble of making him home-cooked meals and purchasing dry and tasteless snack foods from one of those health food grocery stores. His bedroom is stocked with enough trail mix to feed a small pack of hikers.

"Christ," Craig says, when Clyde dumps the snacks on the comforter beside Craig.

"Yeah, yeah. Why do we need all these snacks, I'm fat, fuck you," Clyde says. He starts the process of hooking up his game system to the crappy television.

"I was gonna say 'thank God somebody in this house is going to let me have Doritos' but that works, too. And to be fair, it's only your ass that's fat," Craig responds, examining his fingernails.

Clyde makes an indignant noise at Craig's claim and turns around only to hurl one of the Wii remotes at Craig's head with a protest of, "Asshole."

Craig shifts to the side and it hits the headboard instead, and replies, "Hey, what the hell happened to 'I'm gonna take care of you'?"

"I brought you Doritos and Mountain Dew, didn't I?" Clyde shoots back. He flicks on the TV after he's inserted the game into the Wii, and retreats back to sit on the bed with Craig.

Craig says, "Touché," and accepts his controller from Clyde. Clyde goes as Princess Peach and Craig goes as Bowser, and the battle begins. Clyde has gotten too good at this shit, probably playing by himself in Craig's absence. He beats Craig the first three races all too easily.

They take a Dorito break after that, cracking open their soda cans and chugging. Craig hasn't done something like this in so long, just hanging with Clyde and dicking around, laughing at each other and talking about mundane shit that doesn't even matter, but seems as though it needs to be said.

They stow the bag of Doritos under the blanket between them when there's a knock on the door. It's Mrs. Donovan, who eyes them both suspiciously, like she can smell the hot sauce flavor powder on their fingertips.

"How does cheese pie sound for dinner, boys?"

"Fucking awesome," Craig says without thinking. Martha Donovan's cheese pie has always been one of his favorite things to eat, and though a hearty meal, it's definitely not the health food that she been pushing on him.

Clyde pushes Craig a little at his language and says, "Sounds great, mom."

"Have you started your homework, Clyde?" she asks. She gives them another long, speculative look, and in return they feign innocence.

"Uh, I will in an hour," Clyde says, looking appropriately sheepish, because all he's been doing on a school night is playing Mario Kart and eating chips.

Martha rolls her eyes, "Alright. Just make sure you finish it. You too, Craig." She closes the door, and Craig hears her footsteps retreating down the stairs.

"Nag, nag, nag," Clyde mutters. Craig laughs. They resume their game, playing for another hour and a half before Mrs. Donovan returns to remind Clyde of his promise to crack open the books. Craig reluctantly joins him, gathering his homework where he dropped it on the floor in frustration. In little time, Craig's bed is a mess of papers and books. Craig is supposed to be reading The Great Gatsby, but can't concentrate, mostly because of Clyde's constant stream of chatter.

"So, where'd you apply, man?"

"Huh."

"To college. Where'd you apply?"

Craig rubs the back of his neck, "I haven't."

"What? Why?" Clyde's brows sweep together, "I thought that we were always gonna go to CSU together."

"We stopped being friends, remember," Craig reminds him, "I'm too dumb, anyway."

"What are you talking about?" Clyde says through a mouthful of hot sauce Doritos, which he washes down with a swig of Mountain Dew, that has surely gone flat and lukewarm in the past couple of hours – not that Clyde is one to care. He goes on, "You're like, the smartest guy I know."

"You need to meet more people, then," Craig mutters, gnawing on the eraser end of his pencil. He swats Clyde's hand away from the Dorito bag and scolds, "You're going to spoil your appetite."

"Okay, _mom_," Clyde says, but he does roll up the top of the bag and drop it onto the floor beside the bed.

It's only then that they notice that the bedroom door is ajar, and in the frame stands Tweek. He's staring at them with his usual blank face, and Craig finds himself wondering how long he was standing there. He and Clyde got wrapped up in each other just like old times, so concentrated on the other one that they don't even notice their surroundings.

"Hey dickwad, get over here," Craig calls, angling his head.

Tweek drops his messenger bag on the floor, beside Clyde's open backpack.

"It's a party now," Clyde says, giving a wave, "Hey, Tweek? Did you apply to school?"

Craig knows the answer to this already – Tweek hasn't, and he doesn't intend to. He's working on learning how to do Craig's job at Tweak Bros, since Craig can't do it now, but he and his parents both know that Tweek will never make a reliable and consistent employee. Beyond that, Tweek doesn't have any plans. He thinks that school would be too confining for him and for his art, and art is all that he likes to do. Craig thinks that Tweek could probably live with his parents forever and be happy, as long as he had art supplies and nicotine.

Tweek shakes his head in response to Clyde's question. He climbs up onto the bed, careless of the homework assignments that he crushes under his knees as he crawls over to sit alongside Craig. Clyde sits across from them with his legs crisscrossed and his Trig textbook in his lap. He looks on interestedly when Tweek stoops to nuzzle at Craig's neck and bite a little.

"What are you doing?" Craig asks, knocking Tweek back, after Tweek runs his tongue over the place where he bit Craig.

Tweek scowls and kisses Craig on the lips, sucking his tongue into this mouth. Craig swats him with his dog-eared library copy of The Great Gatsby and says, "The fuck, Tweek? Not when we're with other people."

"Twat," complains Tweek.

"Showy doucherocket," Craig shoots back.

Tweek knees Craig and retorts, "Don't call me a doucherocket, doucherocket."

"Holy shit, are you guys always like this?" Clyde asks them.

"Pretty much," answers Craig.

"But the makeup sex is fucking awesome," Tweek puts in, "You know, Craig totally falls apart when you finger –"

"Do you have a death wish, cumbucket?" Craig interrupts. He claps his hand over Tweek's mouth so that he can't finish that sentence – Clyde does _not_ need to know what his best friend does when he gets fingered. Tweek struggles a little and licks the inside of Craig's palm.

Craig yanks his hand away and complains, "_Sick_, dude. What the fuck did you do that for."

"Don't call me a cumbucket," Tweek scowls, looking like a kicked puppy, "Because if we're actually discussing who came into whom last –"

"Tweek!" says Craig.

"Whom?" repeats Clyde, as though bewildered by the fact that anybody would use the word.

To Craig's relief, the bedroom door is opened again, and this time, it's Clyde's mother again. The smell of delicious food wafts up from the lower level, a homey smell that makes Craig's stomach growl. Mrs. Donovan smiles at the three of them and asks, "Tweek, do you want me to bring up a slice of cheese pie for you, too?"

Tweek nods without speaking, and when Clyde's mom comes back, she's balancing three plates of food in her grip. Clyde scrambles off of the bed to help her and passes Tweek and Craig their plates before taking his.

"Let me know if there's anything you need, boys," Mrs. Donovan says.

"Don't worry about us, mom, I'll take care of it," Clyde assures her. He smacks a loud kiss to his mom's cheek, which is painted with a little too much baby pink blush. Craig feels a little stupid (he usually does when people and their parents have sweet moments together), and then he feels even stupider, because he's getting way too fucking sentimental over a kiss to the cheek.

Clyde and Tweek both notice his discomfort – Clyde walks his mother to the door, and Tweek runs a hand over Craig's hat as though petting his hair. Despite his annoyance with Tweek, he leans into the touch. Tweek says, "I love you lots, Craig."

While Clyde's back is still turned (he's talking to his mom, who rambles off something about remembering to bring the dishes downstairs and rinse them off when they're finished eating), Craig turns his head to rest his forehead against Tweek's, and presses a small kiss to the tip of Tweek's long nose. It's stupidly affectionate, and Craig feels like an idiot after he's done it. The sensation of feeling like a Grade-A moron increase when he notices that Clyde is looking now, and probably saw that fucking stupid kiss. Craig's face heats up. To avoid looking or speaking to anyone, Craig picks up his fork and digs into his food.

There's nothing quite like Martha's cheese pie, and he finds himself cheered up a little by the end of his slice, ready for another one. Clyde takes Craig's empty plate and brings it back with a second helping.

"Tweek, can you hand me my pills?" Craig asks, realizing that he hasn't taken his pain medication in hours and he's starting to feel sore and uncomfortable again. Craig swallows down some Mountain Dew and finishes with a bite of his dinner. He isn't certain what actually happens if he doesn't take the medication without food as per the instructions, but he can't argue with eating.

When they've all finished, Clyde says, "Hey, I'm gonna finish up my homework in my room, okay?" He's giving Tweek and Craig an opportunity to be alone, and he knows he is. Craig appreciates it, even if Tweek has been irritating this evening. Clyde takes their plates as his mom instructed him to do, and picks up his backpack when he returns, sure to close the door behind himself.

It's dark outside, now. If Craig were back at his old house, he'd probably be smoking a bowl, nursing fresh bruises, and hating his life. It isn't like that here at the Donovan's, even with his little sister still just down the hall, in the room that was once Mr. Donovan's office. She still doesn't speak to him, even after they both know that she made the phone call that saved his life. The concept is so strange that Craig can't wrap his head around it, can't understand why the fuck, after years of ignoring each other and interacting only through thinly veiled hostility, that she would do something like that.

Everything has changed. Craig is always fed, always taken care of – sometimes, to an extent, he's even tucked in (Clyde stops by to say goodnight, and maybe once or twice has pulled Craig's blanket over him like a mother might. Craig is embarrassed, but he doesn't dislike it). At times, it feels as though people are fighting to mother him, which is an overwhelming notion.

"I thought he'd never leave," sighs Tweek, shifting up onto all fours and entrapping Craig's body in the cage of his long limbs.

"Don't be a dick, Tweek," Craig says, but he doesn't argue when Tweek lowers his mouth to Craig's. They kiss lazily for a couple minutes, sliding their tongues together and rubbing their bodies lightly together.

"I wanna fuck you so bad," Tweek whines against Craig's lips.

"I can't," replies Craig.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have the energy," Craig says. It's true. He's barely awake as it is. He'd love to curl up right now and fall asleep for ten years, but he also wants to stay awake for more time with his boyfriend, more time to kiss and touch a little bit.

"What if you didn't have to do any work," Tweek says.

"I can't handle a dick right now," Craig argues, "I'm serious, dude. I'm totally ready to pass out."

"Pass out? Do I need to call the doctor? Do your stitches hurt?"

"Jesus, Tweek. It's an expression. I'm beat," Craig says. Belatedly, he realizes the expression 'I'm beat' is also not the best to describe how he's feeling – or maybe it is the best. One or the other. He lets out a frustrated grunt and corrects himself, "Fuck. I'm tired. There."

"What if you didn't have to handle any dicks?" Tweek persists, "I could suck you off."

"I said – well. That does sound kind of nice," admits Craig. He'll have to hibernate for a month afterward, but he'd _love_ to get off. He hasn't since before being shipped off to the hospital, and he'd never do it by himself in this shitty, exhausted state.

The corners of Tweek's mouth lift in a smirk. He peels back Craig's blanket and pulls up his shirt. Craig still wears his pajamas (the same pajamas that he's been wearing for about three days, actually). Tweek kisses along Craig's side. It feels good – Craig had almost forgotten how good it feels to have Tweek pay attention to him like this.

Tweek slips Craig's pajama pants down past his hips, and he grins at the sight of Craig half-naked. Craig still doesn't understand Tweek's fascination with Craig's naked body. It's far from attractive, especially with the fading bruises and stitched up side, like he's a ragdoll that has been torn apart by dog. Tweek kisses the head of Craig's cock and Craig gasps, going hard, and feeling the sparking sensation of being desperately turned on.

Tweek licks up Craig's entire length, going slowly just to tease him, before he takes the entire head into his mouth and sucks softly.

"Ah, fuck," murmurs Craig, a fear of getting caught making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He doesn't think that the Donovans care that he's gay or even that he has a guy in his bedroom with hot mouth wrapped around Craig's cock, but he'd still hate for one of them to walk into his room and catch him with his pants down and dick out.

Tweek swallows him inch by impressive inch. Craig gets lost in the feeling. He feels himself hit the back of Tweek's throat, but Tweek doesn't make any move to indicate that he felt it, too. Craig thrusts up as Tweek's tongue ring slides down, against the entire length of him, slides back when Tweek withdraws his mouth, and returns when Tweek bobs in for more.

In this state, he is not built to last long. He grabs at Tweek's long hair and pulls him forward. Tweek opens wider and moans around Craig's cock, humming a little.

"Fuck fuck _fuck_," Craig chants, and then he stammers out, "Tweek, I'm gonna come."

Tweek takes it in stride, the muscles of his throat working as he swallows. He pulls off of Craig only as he starts to soften in Tweek's mouth.

"C'mere," Craig says, patting the space beside him.

Tweek replaces Craig's pajamas and pets down his t-shirt before wiggling up the mattress to join Craig. He places a kiss on Craig's lips and kisses along Craig's woefully unshaven jaw. Craig's eyelids start to flutter, feeling heavy. His entire body feels heavy. He leans back into Tweek's chest, so thoroughly spent that even when the buttons on Tweek's trench coat press uncomfortably into Craig's back, he can't find the energy to care.

"Craig," Tweek says, voice thin.

"Mm."

"Sometimes I think I make you do stuff you don't wanna do. Sometimes, I want things, and I forget that if somebody says 'no,' that I need to believe them. I don't want to do that to you," Tweek says.

Craig opens his eyes, only barely, and sees the confused hitch between Tweek's brow. He smooths his thumb over the crease and responds hazily, "If you forced me to do anything, I'd have punched your stupid face. You know that."

Tweek's nose wrinkles, "My face isn't stupid."

"It would be if it was forcing me to do shit that I didn't want to," shrugs Craig, not entirely certain that he's making sense, but is tired all the way through to his bones, which feel so used up that they might bend and soften in his body, turning him into a giant, sleepy puddle of flesh.

"And you're sure," Tweek says.

"Sure about what."

"That I don't make you do things," he says.

Craig mumbles, "You're making me stay awake right now."

"Oh," Tweek says. He pets a hand over Craig's hat, which is slightly askew over his hair, before he lifts away from Craig and slips off of the bed. Craig's side is cold from the absence of Tweek. He whines in his throat.

"I'm just tucking you in," Tweek says. He pulls the blanket up over Craig' body, and even presses it around him, up to Craig's neck. He bends over and kisses Craig. Quietly, he says, "Sleep well."

The last thing that Craig registers is Tweek turning off the lights before he secures the bedroom door behind himself.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig spends the next couple weeks slogging through his recovery. He manages to simple tasks, and eventually tackles the stairs from time to time when he feels particularly motivated to get his own food. He's running out of reasons to stay home from school anymore, especially as he's managed by some miracle to keep up with his schoolwork (he suspects it has a lot to do with Mrs. Donovan giving him imploring looks that Craig's own mother could never have pulled off).

His stitches have been removed from his side and head, and Craig appears as good as new, though he still pops a pill for pain from time to time.

Though Craig's energy is steadily restored, he isn't strong enough to do a few things that he'd like to be able to do – bike again, and be able to properly top Tweek. They have resumed sleeping together, though whatever the way they choose to do it, Tweek does the bulk of the work, lest Craig exhaust himself.

Today, Tweek comes directly to the Donovan's after skipping eighth period on the claim that he misses Craig, though Craig is fairly certain that he is just horny. After too much chatter and a round of silent foreplay, he's inside Craig, holding himself steady with a hand on the headboard. He presses kisses to Craig's shoulder blades with each thrust forward.

Craig pants and writhes under him, appreciatively moaning when Tweek's long fingers wrap around his erection, working it softly in sync with their bodies. Tweek hugs Craig a little closer, pressing his damp chest to Craig's back.

"You feel so good," Tweek whispers. Craig tries to form words coherent enough to tell Tweek that he feels good too, but what comes out is just an appreciative noise.

And then Craig's about to come, until –

"_Oh._"

Craig and Tweek still, their heads swinging toward the bedroom door. Standing there is Clyde, bright red, holding onto the straps of his backpack like they're his lifeline. He stammers, "Oh, shit. I'm – um – sorry. Fuck. I'll be downstairs. You guys just, er, finish up." With that less than graceful exit, Clyde flees the scene.

Craig feels as though he should be more embarrassed than he is after being caught getting worked over by a big blond guy, but instead, he just laughs. Tweek shrugs and mutters, "If he says so," apparently in response to Clyde's instruction to finish up, and kisses Craig's skin again, and tightens his grip on Craig's cock.

A little less than twenty minutes later, Tweek and Craig tramp down the stairs fully dressed. Craig is pretty beat, but not enough to actually need to sleep. He could go for some television, maybe, with Clyde. If Clyde isn't too scarred by the fact that he just witnessed, however briefly, his best friend get humped into a headboard.

"See you, Clyde," Tweek says – if Craig didn't know better, he would say that there was a tone in Tweek's voice, but maybe it's just after-sex contentment.

At the front door, Tweek leans down without warning and kisses Craig hard, gripping Craig's face in his big hands for better access. Craig tears away when he needs to breathe, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. He waves to Clyde before he pries open the door. Craig watches Tweek stalk down the walkway and turn in the direction of his house before he retreats to the kitchen, where he pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and plops down across from Clyde.

"Sorry about that," Craig says, not really feeling sorry.

Clyde blushes. He says, "That's okay," and after a long moment of silence, he asks, "Does that hurt?"

"What do you – what, getting fucked?" Craig lifts a brow, "Why do you care."

Clyde sputters, "I'm just curious!"

"I mean, yeah, like the first couple times," Craig says, "but Tweek, you know, knows his stuff."

Clyde's blush deepens, and he gets a look on his face like he feels as though he should say something, but doesn't know what that something is. The something, several sprawling seconds later, turns out to be, "You want some taquitos?"

As Clyde sprinkles shredded cheese over several frozen taquitos for the both of them to share, the sound of the garage opening sounds, followed by it closing again, car doors, and Clyde's parents coming in through the garage. They place reusable bags of groceries onto the table, surveying Craig and Clyde as though they know that their son walked into seeing a couple of guys fucking on the guest bed.

"Craig, honey?" Martha says.

"Yeah?" Craig helps unpack one of the lighter bags, sliding a couple boxes of cereal into their place on top of the refrigerator.

"How have you been feeling?" she asks. Her eyes sweep over him, doing a motherly sort of once-over.

He lets his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug and answers, "Not bad. I finished an essay today. Did you get any Easy Mac?"

"It's over here," Clyde indicates to one of the bags, unloading several containers.

Craig's eyes flick to the top of the stairs. Ruby is sitting there, watching them. He wonders how she feels, being the odd man out in a family. John and Martha would never hurt anybody, so she'll never really know. Craig feels a small vengeful streak, and feels secretly happy that he gets to be included and loved, and she has to stand by and watch. He hopes she's enjoying feeling as alone as he always did.

"Do you think you'd be ready to go back to school?" asks Martha. She and John both watch Craig carefully upon the question being asked.

Craig feels his insides drop a little bit. He knows that he can't stay cooped up inside forever, and he's known that he'll have to return to school. That doesn't stop a sort of prickly fear from clogging up his throat and knotting in his gut. His classmates all know what happened to him. They know about his shitty family, and that Craig learned to use his fists from his father. They _know._ Craig swallows and replies, "I…suppose so." He doesn't have the excuse of his health anymore. He's capable of getting fucked, so he's definitely capable of a few hours of poor-quality public education.

"It won't be all that bad," John assures him, "You've been keeping up with your homework. I imagine that you'll get right back into the swing of things."

Craig catches himself grinding his teeth. He wishes he were high right now. It would make the acceptance of his fate easier. He doesn't smile when he says, "Yeah. Sure."

Clyde notices – all of them notice, really – and reaches over to pull Craig into a sideways hug. He says, "C'mon, dude. We've only got like four more months of this place."

Over cheese-covered taquitos, Craig remembers the sordid fact that peace can only last so long. He's had a month away, and now he'll be coming back. Back to the hellhole they call high school. It will be strange to return to old routines while he lives this new life.

Craig doubts that he will like it.

**o.o.o.o**

**What, another happy chapter? That shit is suspicious, if you ask me.**

**Thank you so much to the beautiful people that review me: lilykinz200, w0rmsign, Kuutamolla, Yui 88, WizardBeards, mallorymichael, DahmerEatsRainbows, Mysterion, Bubbl3wrapguy, KirstenTheDestroyer, TragedyBoner, Crazy88inator, prettyoddrydonfan, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, KrakenRepellent, and BattyCore.**

**A special thank you to marskels for an incredible piece of art!**


	18. Don't Make Me Sick Again

**Chapter Track: Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse – Of Montreal **

On Monday morning, Craig wakes up obscenely early to the voice of Mrs. Donovan telling him that it's time to get up for school. He sighs, lying on his back in bed and remembering all too suddenly the hazy tiredness that finds him on weekdays, the one that makes him feel like a zombie as he roams through classes and cobbled-together lists of facts are drilled into his head. He rolls out of his bed and yanks a t-shirt over his head. It's too big – it's one of the hand-me-downs of Clyde's that he hung in Craig's closet. Over that, Craig pulls on an old Park County Cows hoodie that Clyde wore almost every day of freshman year.

Craig reminds himself to buy a new blue hoodie once he starts work again – reportedly, he threw up blood onto the old one, and the garment is now sitting in a dump someplace in a Biohazard bag.

He robotically works his way through a morning routine that he hasn't performed since living at his old house, with his parents, in his old life. It's strange to think that he ever thought of that place as home, when the Donovans have made this house a new home to him in a handful of weeks. He doubts it's the same for Ruby, who rarely emerges from her room unless she needs to eat – and sometimes she comes downstairs to watch television after she thinks everybody has gone to sleep.

Craig runs a brush through his hair and shoves his hat over his head, still feeling faintly annoyed at Tweek for being as childish as he was last week with Clyde around. He hasn't come over since then, although they had inadvertent cybersex last night over AIM, after which Tweek logged off without so much as a "goodnight."

Craig tromps downstairs, feeling spent and bleary-eyed even though he's only five minutes into his day. Clyde scuffs his shoes on the floor while he waits for Craig at the bottom of the stairs. He looks much more chipper than Craig feels.

"Why was I cursed with a best friend who's a morning person," Craig laments. They gear up to leave for the bus stop, but Mrs. Donovan stops Craig with a hand on his shoulder. He winces – a reflex that he hates, and can't seem to get rid of. Craig doesn't like being touched when he can see the person doing it, and sometimes even if he can. He gets anxious and upset, and all he can do is remember how fucking _big_ his dad has always been in comparison, and how no matter what he did, he couldn't defend himself.

Mrs. Donovan frowns deeply but doesn't apologize. Instead, she holds out a bagel and says, "You didn't get a chance to eat breakfast, honey."

He feels a little better at that, and bites into the bagel as he Clyde start walking. Clyde tells him, "I told people to cool it with all the stuff that happened. So like, if anybody bothers you, tell me. I'll fuck them up."

Craig swallows and responds, "I can hold my own."

"I know, man," Clyde answers, "but – I'm like – I dunno. I'm a bear, like one of those nasty mama bears, and you're my cub. I'll rip apart any assholes that try to fuck with you."

"Just keep Wendy and the school council from pretending to be all sympathetic," Craig says, "and I'm not your cub. Baby bears are all cute and shit. I'm something cool. Like a fox."

"Oh, foxy Craig," Clyde pretends to do a little shimmy, shaking breasts he doesn't have, and laughs. He adds, "Wendy isn't faking it, dude. I mean. I think she feels bad that she thought you were just some bad kid, when there was like…more to it."

"Yeah, I don't want to talk about it," Craig clips out, "and you're damn right I'm foxy."

The conversation dies when Craig bites back into the bagel that Clyde's mom gave him, and the bus pulls up shortly thereafter. Token is already seated on the bus, and Clyde herds Craig toward him, squishing all three of them onto the same seat, even though they're too big to fit.

"Hey, Token," Clyde says.

Token gives a salute, and Clyde continues, "If I'm a bear and Craig's a fox, what animal would you be?"

Token gives this actual consideration despite the randomness of the question and replies, "I dunno, a cheetah? They're fast motherfuckers. How's it going, Craig?"

Craig eyes Token for a moment and responds, "Swimmingly." If it were Tweek asking he probably would have told the truth. He's exhausted, he already needs to pop a pill for the aching, and he'd rather get hit by a bus than go through the same question being asked by at least fifty other people that were previously uninterested in the exploits of Craig Tucker.

Clyde pipes up, "Craig gets pretty tired if he does too much stuff, so we have to make sure that he doesn't overexert himself. My mom says so, anyway."

"What," Craig complains. Of course Martha would have asked her son to look out for him. The Donovans are good at that – looking out for people. The problem is that he doesn't want to be looked after anymore. He wants to be left alone, casually snubbed and ignored like he was before his dad put him in the hospital. Fuck this sanctimonious small-town "we care" bullshit. Craig wants to be normal.

"I just want to make sure that if you have to fall asleep someplace, it won't be weird," Clyde defends, "because when I found you in front of the bathtub, asleep on the shower mat, that _was_ weird."

"_Clyde_," Craig protests. That particular incident occurred about a week into Craig's stay at the Donovans'. He wanted to take a shower, or maybe he was going to try and shave – he can't remember – but exhaustion hit him full-force in a moment and he sat down with his back to the tub to regain his senses. He'd fallen asleep shortly thereafter, and was woken up when Clyde came home from school and tramped into the bathroom for an after school piss.

The bus comes to a stop in front of the school. Craig swallows tightly, wishing that he didn't have to get off this vehicle, despite its smelliness and lack of space, because he knows that once he steps into that building, he will feel much worse.

"Dude, c'mon," Token says, lifting his brows as he stands up and Craig doesn't budge.

"Fuck," expresses Craig. He pushes his way past the other students eager to unload from the bus and onto the campus. It looks the same as ever, but Craig feels a fresh anxiety in addition to his old misanthropy. He flexes his fingers over the straps of his backpack, staring without moving.

Before a kid shoves him aside and says, "Move it, asshole."

Which inexplicably makes Craig feel better.

Clyde, on the other hand, shouts, "You move it, you fucking dickhead!"

Craig spots Kenny and Bebe smoking with the goth kids not far off, and steps forward to give them the courtesy of a hello – and maybe for a cigarette, which he realizes he would _kill_ for. There was no smoking allowed in the hospital, and he'd have felt guilty if he asked the Donovans for cigarettes. They don't even know that he smokes, since he started only after he broke Clyde's jaw and they stopped speaking altogether.

He is stopped, though, by a hand on his forearm. Craig flinches.

"Sorry," says Token, "but I wanted to talk to you for a second," his dark eyes flick to Clyde, who's standing behind Craig, and he adds, "alone."

"You gonna be okay, man?" asks Clyde.

Craig nods, and Token looks relieved. He and Craig walk off down the sidewalk, away from most of the students amassed outside or fighting their way inside the school through clumps of loitering students. Token looks pensive, and doesn't talk at first, leaving them both to shuffle in awkward silence.

Token finally says, "Look, I'm just gonna say it: I'm sorry."

"For what."

"I don't know, Craig. Maybe the fact that I just sat on my ass while you got the shit beaten out of you?" Token tiredly responds, "I wish you would have told me."

"Whatever. It's fine. You didn't know, and I don't wanna talk about it," Craig says. He knew that this would start, the apologies, the declarations of caring, the offers of help. He doesn't want any of that, and he doesn't need it.

"Craig, come on. Maybe you _should_ talk about it," Token suggests.

"Look, dude. We're cool. But don't fucking tell me what to do," Craig says. He turns on his heel and heads for where Clyde is waiting, when Token pulls him back with a hand on his arm – again. And Craig flinches – again. He shakes Token off and says, "Don't _do_ that."

Token looks guilty at that. Craig feels pathetic, fucking pathetic. He doesn't want to make people feel guilty. He doesn't want them to be upset with themselves. He doesn't want anybody to feel anything that they didn't already feel before. He wants it all the same.

"Look, please," Token says, "I'm really sorry, okay?"

"Okay," Craig snaps, harder than he meant to, although Token just won't drop it.

He returns to Clyde's side and mumbles, "Gonna say hi to Kenny," because Craig knows that Kenny won't bullshit him about what happened. Kenny has been burned and beaten up just like Craig has. He won't apologize, because Kenny already knew that it had been happening, and offered his help in the form of cheap cigarettes and weed. Craig appreciates that.

When Craig approaches them, he notices two things: That Butters is sitting between Kenny and Bebe, and that Tweek has joined them. The latter sucks on his e-cig contentedly before he notices Craig standing a few feet behind him. When he does, he flies up from the ground and wraps his arms around Craig, tugging his face up into a rough kiss. Before Craig can shake him off and remind him that they agreed to limit PDA, Tweek slinks off of Craig and pulls a thermos from one of the outside pockets of his trench coat.

"Oh, Christ," Craig says, snatching the thermos out of Tweek's grip. He tips back a generous gulp of coffee and remembers, irritation aside, that Tweek still makes his gut knot up inside in the most awesome way, the kind of way that makes Craig feel warm and _okay_ for a tiny space of time. He gives Tweek a look of thanks and hopes that the message is received, leaning his head against Tweek's arm.

"Hey, dude," greets Kenny, lifting his cigarette in acknowledgment.

Bebe stands and wraps her arms around Craig. She says, "It's good to have you back, baby." Craig has been expecting more of an interrogation from Bebe, but he catches Kenny's eye as she retreats and he takes a seat with them, and knows that he had words with her when he heard that Craig would be returning to school.

Clyde awkwardly sits beside Craig – these people aren't his usual crowd. They didn't used to be Craig's either, but they have been for a year. Craig snags a cigarette from Kenny and a light from Tweek, who inexplicably still has several lighters inside of one of the inside pockets of his trench coat, despite being an e-cig smoker. Clyde earns several stares from the goth kids, and from Bebe, who slept with Clyde once.

Come to think of it, this crowd isn't Butters' crowd, either.

That's when Craig notices that Butters, while wearing his same-old, regular kid clothing, has glittery lavender eyeshadow swept over the lids of his eyes, and a thick line of black liner right above his lash line…and there's a brand new silver stud glinting in his left earlobe.

"Poor Butters," Craig mutters to Clyde.

"What? What happened?"

"Kenny and Bebe," Craig says. He takes a drag off of the end of his cigarette and chugs back more coffee, determined to finish it before it goes cold.

"No way," Clyde shakes his head.

"Yes way," Tweek puts in, clearly having been eavesdropping. He says, "They've all been doing it for like a week and a half. It's Kenny, Bebe and Butters now."

Craig has been out of the loop on this, and he doesn't like it. Kenny and Bebe…they're not like Clyde, who has always been there for Craig even when Craig tried to shove him away – but they _did_ stand by Craig when he needed not to be entirely alone. After he'd hurt Clyde so badly that he came to school with his jaw wired (though his smile was still firmly plastered to his face), people avoided Craig, treating him like a leper when he opened his mouth to speak to them. Five days into his social banishment, he ditched a couple of class periods and just sat outside.

He'd been so fucking lost.

And Bebe had come outside. He thought that she was going to bolt the second that she noticed him sitting out there. Instead, she sat next to him without saying anything and offered him his first cigarette. It was nice.

A couple days following, Bebe invited Craig to a party – a party that turned out to only Bebe and himself, and Kenny and Ike.

Craig hadn't thought that what they'd done was all that great, he'd always considered them to be his last resort. But maybe he was wrong, and maybe he needs to treat them like something more. He doesn't know how to do that, though.

After he finishes his cigarette, he walks inside with Tweek and Clyde. Clyde walks a couple steps in front of Craig and Tweek, glowering when somebody stares even a moment too long – and Tweek slips his long fingers between Craig's, squeezing their hands together. Craig feels sick and anxious, even worse than he'd felt on the bus ride over, because he's back in this awful place, and it sucks just as much as he thought it would. People are staring at him as he walks to his locker, even as Tweek and Clyde stand behind him when he turns in his combination to collect his books, folding their arms like body guards.

Craig turns his head when Tweek bends down for a goodbye kiss, making Tweek's lips land awkwardly on his ear. He doesn't need any more people looking at him than already are. Why couldn't he live in Denver or something, where there are lots of people and they hardly know each other, where the people you pass on the street could be tourists as much as they could live two streets away. It's awful here, where everybody knows everybody, and your business is open for anybody to see.

Tweek parts with Craig and Clyde at the American History classroom. When Craig shuffles in, Mr. Garrison greets, "Welcome back, Craig."

He's glad that Garrison didn't ask how he was feeling, because Craig is a split second away from punching any false sympathizers in the mouth.

The rest of the day proceeds much as the first part, with stares, and some people brave enough to approach Craig and tell him that they're sorry, or that they hope he feels better, or that they're glad he's here. He has told each and every one of them to fuck off, because they don't care. They never cared, until he was a hot topic.

He goes home with Tweek after school and they fuck on the couch, since both of Tweek's parents are working the coffee shop. Tweek is rougher with Craig than he has been in ages. When they finish, Craig's skin is dotted with dark hickeys, nail marks streak down his back, and a bite on his shoulder is bleeding a little. He's tired enough that he falls asleep within a few minutes, all sticky and exposed in the Tweaks' cluttered living room.

He wakes still naked, though a quilt has been wrapped around him, and Tweek is stretched out over him like a cat, watching television. Craig smells food cooking and sees Mrs. Tweak shuffling around the kitchen. Maybe he should be embarrassed that under the blanket tucked over him, he is nude, but Craig can't work up enough energy to give half of a shit. The Tweaks are incredibly candid about the fact that their son is sleeping with him, and as shocking as it started out, he's become immune.

Tweek notices that Craig is awake and nips at his ear, murmuring, "Don't worry, I cleaned the come off of you."

"That's very thoughtful, Tweek," Craig dryly says, but he doesn't protest when Tweek pecks at his lips and licks open his mouth.

"I thought so," Tweek agrees.

After watching television with Tweek, Craig stands, wrapping the quilt around him like a toga, and dresses in the downstairs bathroom. When he emerges, Richard has come home and is setting the dinner table. He gives Craig a pleasant hello, which Craig returns, and moves up to help prepare for dinner.

At the end of the night, Craig hitches a ride home with Mrs. Tweak, kisses Tweek goodbye, and prepares for another day of hellish apologies and assholes pretending that they've always loved him.

**o.o.o.o**

Tweek hopes that Craig will perhaps be excited by the sixth issue of _Are You Mental?_ Craig has been occupied by Clyde a lot, and Tweek hasn't been able to keep his attention for more than a minute. Tweek had thought before that Clyde was okay. Even when they were little, Clyde had always been nice to Tweek when everybody else was cruel.

But he's stolen Craig away from Tweek. Tweek can't help but wonder if Clyde intended this all along, to wait for Tweek to have something nice and wonderful, something to love, and steal it right from under his nose. He's been made to watch Craig and Clyde all week, laughing together and being happy, like they were before Tweek had to go to the hospital.

Tweek has had to fight tooth and fucking nail to keep Craig's attention, and he hasn't been very successful. He only manages it when he and Craig are alone, and that upsets Tweek, because why should Craig pay attention to him when there are other people around? He knows he should be just as important as Clyde is. He asked his mom to be sure, and she said that yes, Tweek is very important to Craig.

He packs the copies of _Are You Mental? #6 _into his messenger bag, careful not to bend the pages of even one copy.

"Sweetie, we're going to be late if we don't get going soon," his mom says from outside his door, giving a light knock.

"Coming," Tweek says. He hitches his bag over his shoulder and exits his bedroom. He picks up the two thermoses of coffee on the kitchen counter where his mom left them for Tweek and for Craig, and slides each into either of his pockets.

His mom is waiting for him in the car. Tweek slouches down in the seat beside her and she starts it up.

Tweek's head feels as though it's filled with cotton. The strangers in his head are quieter because he took his medication, but he feels slow, like the things he wants to do are too fast for his shaking fingers to accomplish.

And he can't stop thinking of Craig.

And Clyde.

Because now Craig doesn't come without Clyde, no matter what. Clyde makes Tweek angry. He's always touching his Craig, brushing his fingers against his hand or hugging him for too long, or even lying in same bed together. Tweek's blood starts to thrum with jealously, like little green monsters are dancing in his veins.

"Mama?" Tweek says. He doesn't mean to call her _mama_, and he hasn't since he was little, but he's scared and upset. He just wants to make things right, but Tweek knows he's clumsy. He knows when he wants to do something nice, he usually fucks it up. Sometimes things that Tweek thinks are nice aren't nice to other people. Sometimes he's irritating, or wrong, or _crazy. _He doesn't like when people call him crazy, but they do. They do it a lot.

His mom sends him a look, one that he can't identify, which frustrates him. Tweek used to be better at seeing faces and knowing the feelings on them, but after her got sick, everything got chopped up and broken in his head. His mom pets a hand over his hair, which he didn't remember to comb this morning, and asks, "Yes, pumpkin?"

"Sometimes Craig doesn't say 'I love you' back," Tweek says, not certain if that's what he was going to say before, but it's still something that bothers him. Craig has said that he loves Tweek exactly twelve times since the first time he said it in the hospital. Thirteen times total. Tweek has said it so many times that he forgot to keep counting, but he bets it's hundreds of times.

"Some people don't say 'I love you' as much," his mom explains, "some people show that they love you instead. That's how Craig is, honey."

Tweek doesn't know how Craig shows love. Tweek shows that he loves Craig by saying so – and making him things, like origami giraffes, or drawings, or a new hat for him to wear. He supposes that if Craig didn't at least _like_ Tweek, he wouldn't have sex with him. When they're alone, he kisses Tweek all over, and that counts. But why can't he ever kiss Tweek at other times?

"We're here, sweetheart," his mom says.

Tweek whips his head up and looks out the window. It's true, they're at school now. He watches the other people through the window for a couple quiet seconds before he opens the car door and slips out. He crosses the dry grass and patches of dirty snow. The weatherman on the television said that they would have new snow tonight, lots and lots of it.

He spots Craig sitting next to Clyde, Craig with a cigarette in his hand, and Clyde smiling, like he hasn't done anything wrong, like steal people. Tweek can feel himself get angrier, and he clenches his fists inside the pockets of his trench coat, so nobody can see. He marches across the brown lawn and yanks his hands out of his coat pockets to seize Craig, pulling him up into a kiss that he'll feel in his toes.

Craig doesn't respond. He pulls himself back and bites out, "Tweek, quit fucking doing that."

"I was only kissing you," argues Tweek. Why won't Craig kiss him back?

"I told you that I don't like doing that in front of other people," Craig whispers harshly, sparing a glance behind his shoulder at Craig, "You said to tell you if you're forcing me to do shit I don't want to do, and I don't like kissing when there are people watching, okay?"

Tweek quivers a little, looking down at his boots. He frowns deeply and says, "Okay." He pulls the thermos of coffee that's for Craig out of his pocket and presses it into Craig's hands, before tromping off toward the front doors. He feels all kinds of sick right now, the kind of sick that you get when you're really sad, and all your insides start to hurt like your intestines have turned into snakes – the poisonous kind.

"Tweek, don't be like that," he hears Craig call behind him. He keeps walking away, but Craig catches up to him in the hallway.

"Come on," Craig says, "You told me to tell you if I didn't want to do stuff."

"I know," Tweek says. He's trying not to cry and look stupid.

"Then quit being an asshole and don't get mad at me," Craig snips.

"I'm not mad at you," answers Tweek, "I'm mad at _me_." He just wants his brain to do things the right way, but it never does. He can never make his thoughts linear – they always skip around, sometimes so fast that he doesn't have time to gather things up, and sometimes so slow that his body wants to do things that his mind won't let him – that the strangers won't let him. They love making Tweek miserable. They feed off it. They subsist on anguish and human blood, which is why they were going to kill his parents, and why Tweek cut his legs up to try and stop them. But they don't like Tweek's blood. His blood is infected with _crazy._

Tweek tries to walk away again, but Craig pulls him back by his sleeve. He rolls up onto his toes and frames Tweek's face in his hands, kissing his lips gently. He doesn't say anything, just walks away, back to where Clyde is waiting some yards away from where Tweek and Craig just kissed. Good. He saw that. He deserves to know that Craig is all his. Not Clyde's Craig. He's Tweek's Craig.

He skips his class so that he can spread the new issue around the school, dumping the copies onto the floor and the bathroom counters in each restroom. He makes sure that it's all clear before he dumps them, humming Daydream Believer as he works.

When he's finished, Tweek spends the rest of his skipped class holed up in the library with his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. He feels mean, and so he draws mean things, like Clyde with a fish's face, so nobody would want to kiss him anymore, and he wouldn't be able to steal people away.

The bell rings when Tweek is drawing snakes tangled up in a faceless person's tummy, and he flips his sketchbook shut, pushing it down into his messenger bag and replacing his pencil in the zipper case he keeps them in. When Tweek arrives at the English classroom, Craig is already there, defiantly holding open the sixth issue of _Are You Mental? _He glances up when Tweek slogs through the door, and doesn't smile or wave, but simply nods.

Tweek grins at Craig when he takes his seat, and the second bell rings shortly thereafter. Mrs. Babcock calls for the homework, which Tweek doesn't really remember having. As she's collecting a vocabulary worksheet from the students on the other side of the room, Mr. Mackey appears in the doorway.

"Hello Mrs. Babcock," he greets, sounding grim, "I need to borrow Mr. Tweak immediately, mmkay?"

Tweek feels his heart thump against his ribcage, and slides a glance over at Craig, hoping that maybe he will know what Mr. Mackey wants with him when he hasn't even done anything.

"Mr. Tweak," Mr. Mackey levels a stare at Tweek and crooks his finger, "follow me. Take your things with you."

Tweek's first thought is that his mother has died. He would also panic about Craig dying, but he was sitting right next to Tweek in class, and he forces himself to remember that it isn't logically possible for Craig to have died. But his mom – he needs his mom. She takes care of him when nobody else wants to, and gives him advice that he can trust, even if he can't believe it. She makes sure that he takes his medication and doesn't forget to brush his teeth, and she was the one that taught him how to knit.

He starts shaking, and lets out an involuntary noise of distress before demanding, "Is my mom okay?"

"Your mother is fine, Mr. Tweak," Mr. Mackey says. He closes the door to the entire office, waiting room and all, when they file in, and escorts Tweek to his own office. There's a cop standing in the corner.

"Mr. Tweak, I'm gonna ask you to put your hands behind your back, mmkay?"

"W-What? Why? No! You can't!" Tweek voice breaks, squeaking embarrassingly high, something it hasn't done in years. He stammers, "I don't wanna be tied up! You can't do that!" The only person he'd ever let tie up his hands is Craig – and even then Tweek is highly wary of being contained. He likes the idea of maybe tying Craig up, though.

The officer steps forward and takes Tweek by his arms, forcing his wrists together and slapping cuffs around him. Tweek struggles and rears back, but his arms are secured together now. He could try and bite the officer, but his mom told him that he should always listen to police officers.

The officer pulls out the chair in front of Mr. Mackey's desk and orders Tweek to sit, which he does, because he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't like this. No, no, no, he does not. He doesn't like having his hands like this, where they can't do his favorite things, like draw and fold and knit and touch. He keeps struggling, but the metal hurts his wrists, scraping up against bone.

"What's happening?" Tweek asks, "What are you doing? Where's my mom?"

"Your mother's on her way, Mr. Tweak," Mr. Mackey says, "We discovered something unfortunate, I'm afraid." He pushes a copy of issue #6 of _Are You Mental?_ across his desk, "We have some video footage of you taking these out of your bag and distributing around the school, mmkay. We recognize the artwork as the work of the vandal that defaced a row of lockers, and the vandal that's been tagging every building in town. You're being arrested, Mr. Tweak."

Tweek loses his voice, then. Not really – he probably _could_ scream, but he's so scared that his heart begins to feel as though it might break through his ribs and land on Mr. Mackey's desk in a bloody pile. His words get stuck in his throat, blocking _everything_, not just screaming or kicking or shouting, but breathing.

"Why don't you take a deep breath in, Mr. Tweak?"

Tweek shakes his head back and forth. He can't. He just _can't_, no matter how hard he tries.

"We're not going to make a scene, mmkay, Tweek? We're gonna keep this all in the office here," Mr. Mackey assures him, "Your mom is on her way to help us out with the papers and take you home."

"I want Craig," he says desperately, because they could come and get Craig, he's right here, in this building.

Mr. Mackey gives a sad shake of his head, "We can't do that, Mr. Tweak."

"Yes you can! Craig is here!" Tweek shrieks, "I don't wanna – I can't – I can't breathe. I want my mom. I wanna go home. _Let me out_!"

The door bursts open and his mom breaks through, looking frazzled, with her Tweak Bros apron still on, and her hair falling out of its updo. Tweek bolts out of his chair to shouts of protests from both Mr. Mackey and the police officer, barreling straight into his mother, who almost falls over from the impact.

"Mommy, stop them! Make them take these off," Tweek cries, "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Honey," she says in a soft voice, the one that tells Tweek that he has actually done something very, very wrong, "Please listen to the police officer, sweetheart. I promise that I won't let anybody hurt you."

Tweek begins to cry in earnest, then, because the last thing that he meant to do was disappoint his mom. He hates this, how he thinks that things he does are good, and that other people don't think so – and now important people think he's done something bad, people with handcuffs and stern voices and serious eyes.

Tweek's mother takes a seat beside Tweek, and Mr. Mackey pushes forward a few papers. He explains, "These are the expulsion papers, mmkay? And the one below it is the ticket for vandalism. I explained the situation of your son's mental illness to this officer, Mrs. Tweak, but I'm afraid this is still being taken very seriously."

"Of course," Tweek's mom says, "I understand, Mr. Mackey."

Her eyes dart over the paperwork, pausing only to glance at Tweek and give a reassuring rub to his arm. She says, "It's alright, Tweek."

"No it isn't," he protests, still crying, though he's quieter now.

His mom signs the papers. They hand her their copies, and Mr. Mackey says, "This young man will escort you to your car. Your son isn't welcome on these premises again, Mrs. Tweak."

Tweek squirms when his mom and the policeman guide him out into the hallway, his hands still behind his back. He stammers out protests and tries to yank himself away to hide in the office – he doesn't want people to see him with the cuffs. His wrists hurt from struggling against the cuffs, but he can't stop himself from trying, even though he knows it's impossible.

"Tweek, honey, please don't," his mom pleads, "You're going to hurt yourself if you try to get out of those cuffs."

Students stare as he trudges down the hallway, feeling defeated, and like an exotic zoo animal on display. Eyes follow him all the way outside, too many eyes, far too many. He feels their gazes slick over him like vat of slime has been overturned onto his entire body.

The officer unlocks the handcuffs when they reach Tweek's mom's car. His wrists are red and raw now, bruising where he tugged the hardest. He rubs at them before his mom wraps her arms around him in a tight hug and says, "I don't think you did anything bad, sweetheart. You did what you thought was right, and I think you made a difference."

"The good kind of difference?" Tweek weeps into her shoulder.

"Definitely the good kind," she affirms, before releasing him.

They drive home in silence, without music or his mom's chattering to break it. She hugs him again when they're safely contained inside their house, rocking Tweek back and forth until his angry sobs wind down to distraught sniffling into her shoulder.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?" she asks, tucking a tuft of his hair behind his ear.

"Can it be blueberry tea?" Tweek asks, voice small.

His mom kisses his forehead and answers, "Of course. Why don't you watch a movie, honey? I'll ask your dad to pop by the grocery store after work and he'll get you that coconut cake that you like, how's that?"

"Good," Tweek whispers.

"I'm glad to hear it," she says. She kisses his forehead again and walks up to the kitchen, finally removing her Tweak Bros apron and draping it over the side of the kitchen table.

Tweek unlaces his heavy boots and kicks them off haphazardly. He takes off his trench coat, because it feels abruptly heavy around his shoulders, and lets it pool on the floor beside his discarded shoes, before climbing onto the couch. He swaddles himself in the quilt he used to cover up Craig when he was naked on Monday. It still smells vaguely of sex and Craig's skin. The aroma makes Tweek feel better and worse at the same time, because he remembers being happy and pressed into Craig when the scent hits him, but thinking of Craig makes him remember making Craig angry.

Tweek has disappointed everybody today. He let Craig be stolen and made him angry when he didn't listen to Craig say 'no.' Tweek hates himself for doing that. He doesn't understand what horrible person could listen to the word 'no' and feel okay with doing what they've been told not to anyway. He writes about these things in his zine, tells people how to do them, to listen to people when they tell you not to do things.

And his zine just got him expelled.

He doesn't care about school, not really, but he can't help other kids if he's far away like this. They need somebody to tell them what's right, to undo all the stupid things that they've been told.

His mom won't ever tell him that she's sad, but Tweek knows that she is. She wanted him to finish school. At least then she'd have something he did to be proud of. Instead, she has a screw-up for a kid, one that's strange in all the wrong ways.

At that, Tweek begins to cry again before he can even turn on the TV.

His mom brings him blueberry tea, which he cradles in his hands for a long time before he even takes his first sip. She rests her arm around his shoulder and brings her knees up to her chest, leaning her head onto Tweek's arm.

"I'm a fuck up," Tweek finally says.

Tweek's mom shakes her head and says, "No, honey, no. You are so many things, but you're not a fuck up. I am _so_ proud that you're my baby. You make the most beautiful art in the whole world, and you help people that feel alone. Those are good things, Tweek. And I am _very_ proud of them."

Tweek can't think of what to say to that, because his mother always tells the truth. He finds that after being held for a little longer, he feels okay enough to be released, and to turn on the TV. He picks Kiki's Delivery Service to watch, because it's been one of his favorites since he was little, and because it's happy. He needs something happy.

He stays on the couch until the sun starts to set, watching movies and napping a little when he's exhausted his well of energy by crying it all out. When he's half-awake and watching Spirited Away, the doorbell rings. His mom answers it, and when she returns, she brings Craig with her.

Craig greets Tweek with a soft, "Hey."

"Hi," Tweek says, his voice raspy from sleep and crying too much.

"You wanna go for a walk or something?" asks Craig.

Tweek would do anything for Craig, really, but a walk sounds nice on its own. He wishes that he'd thought of that earlier, instead of curling up on the couch and wishing himself sane. Slowly, Tweek sits and nods, "Yeah." He laces his boots back onto his feet and buttons his trench around him, misbuttoning someplace in the middle and not caring. He tells his mom that they're going to walk and she says not to go too far, not that there's anyplace 'far' in South Park.

As soon as they're past Tweek's driveway, Craig lights a cigarette. He asks, "So. What happened. I heard a lot of shit, but I didn't want to get pissed until I talked to you. So, shoot."

"I got expelled," Tweek says, "They found out it was me, with the zine thing. And the locker thing. And I got arrested. Because of the buildings thing." Tweek holds out his wrists. They aren't raw anymore, but they're bruised badly. He didn't realize how hard he had tried to yank himself out of the cuffs, but most of what Tweek remembers is feeling confined and scared, and like a fool.

Craig holds Tweek's wrists in his hands, lifting them to his mouth and kissing the ring of bruises on each.

When he lets Tweek's hands fall to his sides, Craig brings him in for a kiss.

They break it only when they need to breathe, at which point, despite being in the middle of the road, Craig kisses along Tweek's neck, nipping at his skin.

"I love you," sighs Tweek, holding Craig closer.

"Mm," is Craig's response, and he licks over the place that he kissed.

"How come we can't kiss when there are other people?" asks Tweek.

Craig lifts his mouth away from Tweek's neck, exhaling through his nostrils before he slides out of Tweek's arms and takes another puff of his cigarette. He says, "I don't like – I don't know, but I don't like it. It's just I don't like being…exposed like that."

That makes no sense to Tweek. None of it does. Before he can help himself, he blurts, "Are you sure it isn't because of Clyde, asshole?"

"Clyde?" Craig echoes, "What about him?"

"You – you want him instead. I'm not good enough, and he's stealing you from me," Tweek says. He manages it calmly – at least in comparison to the rest of the day that he's had.

Craig squints at Tweek before he scoffs, "Tweek, that's fucking crazy."

Crazy.

_Crazy._

It's just one word – it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But it hurts, it hurts so much that it feels like Tweek has been skewered through the gut with a white-hot poker. Other people have called Tweek crazy before. The name isn't new, and maybe this isn't even the first time that Craig has used the word. But he used it to talk about Tweek's thoughts. His feelings.

"I'm not crazy," mutters Tweek, before he realizes that he's madder than muttering. He lifts his eyes from the pavement and stares hard at Craig, shouting, "I'm not crazy!"

"You're fucking acting like it," Craig accuses, "Quit being so goddamned irrational. If I wanted Clyde, _who is straight,_ by the way, I'd have told you to fuck off ages ago. Now stop acting like you just broke out of the hospital and put your fucking head on, dickwad."

It happened to Craig's mom. Tweek should have known that it would happen to Craig.

A monster has stolen his skin.

Real Craig wouldn't say these things. Real Craig loves him, even if he doesn't always say it. Real Craig would kiss him better.

Tweek's only option is to try and get Craig out of there, the real Craig, the nice, good Craig. Tweek lets out a roar and surges toward monster-Craig, lashing out and hitting him under his jaw. He flies backward, ass hitting pavement, and head quickly following. Tweek leaps to attack again, but monster-Craig scrambles to his feet.

"What the actual fuck, you unbelievable prick? Have you gone fucking insane? I'm not into Clyde! Calm your tits, you crazy fuck," Craig holds out his hands, but when Tweek comes for him, he flinches a little and sends his own fists flying. He hits Tweek in the gut.

It hurts, enough that Tweek wants to vomit. The monster is too strong, the strangers tell him. If he got the best of Craig, the monster surely can overtake Tweek – and the last thing that Tweek wants is to come home to his mother as nothing more than his skin, zipped up over an ugly, horrible creature that wouldn't love her like she deserves.

He has to run. It's the only option. He may never get the chance to escape if he doesn't know.

Tweek takes one last look at the monster, brushing debris from the street off of the t-shirt that belongs to Craig, and bolts. He takes off down the street, not sure what direction that he's going in, and not caring. He just needs to _escape. _

"Yeah, you fucking run away, you crazy fuckwad!" the monster calls behind him.

Tweek obeys.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you so, so much to the lovely reviewers that never fail to encourage me (to do unspeakably horrible things to the characters you love): RaiineDays, Yui 88, w0rmsign, lilykinz200, mallorymichael, Britnotmobile, DahmerEatsRainbows, Mysterion, KirstenTheDestroyer, Crazy88inator, BattyCore, Druekee, WizardBeards, and ****XxCandiigrlszxX****. **

**I apologize for the slow update. I've been so swamped! **


	19. Every Inch of the Spine

**Chapter Track: Where You End – Moby **

He feels heavy. Each time he launches himself into his run, his lungs squeeze and hiss like a broken boiler. But if Tweek stops for even a moment, he knows that the monsters will get him. They always do, when he stops. They catch him and eat him up, until he wakes up in a hospital with nice nurses and other patients just as weary-eyed as he is, just as strange, just as _crazy. _

Sometimes Tweek thinks he might be the craziest of them all, or maybe, _maybe_ he's the most sane. There are monsters all around. They're in the street and in the lights, creeping out of every shadow in every place, ready to eat Tweek up.

It's snowing, now. Tweek isn't cold. He's been running so fast and so hard that he can't feel anything but the burning in his own throat and chest. The strangers are strangling him, making it so that he can't breathe, so he'll have to stop. And then the monsters will get him, the monster that took Craig's skin, and the monsters that hide in between the bricks of the buildings whipping by, and the monsters that crawl in the gutters.

Tweek turns into the woods. He runs through the crunchy, icy snow still stuck to the ground. It's slick with the new snowflakes coming down.

Tweek falls.

Surrounding him are the monsters. They're in the trees, and the pine needles are their claws, filled with poison that could kill a man in an instant. He scrambles onto his feet and shouts, "Don't eat me!" before he scrambles in the inside of his coat.

Tweek extracts his pocket knife and opens the blade, pointing it at the monsters, leaning in with their deadly claws. He says, "I have a knife! Leave me alone!"

But the wind seems to encourage the monsters to close in on Tweek, spraying cold snowflakes onto Tweek's face with a gust that feels like tiny needles all over his skin. He's helpless here. They're going to get him, and there's nothing that he can do to stop the monsters from eating him.

Except…one thing.

"Here," Tweek says, "drink my blood. That's the best part of me, I promise." He draws the blade across the tops of his thighs, where his scars are. He slices through the tough fabric of his jeans, and blood starts flowing into the snow. It isn't enough. Monsters are thirsty creatures. So he slices again, this time into his other leg. Tweek slashes through denim and skin until he starts to feel woozy, hoping that his sacrifice will keep the monsters at bay.

He stumbles forward, his vision tunneling. The monsters are lapping up the blood behind him. He's leaving a trail. That isn't good. They could follow him, and maybe they'd devour the flesh that such sweet-tasting blood came from. He doesn't know how to stop them. Tweek thinks hard, but he's fading fast. The blood is making his legs sticky, and his jeans are aggravating the wounds.

Oh well, he thinks.

It's too late now.

Tweek collapses into the snow.

It's not a bad place to sleep, he thinks. The sky will make a blanket for him, and he'll be warm.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig watches Tweek go with a sore gut and a sore heart. He's angry, the fury bubbling up and resting under his skin as he sees Tweek's retreating back. He knows he shouldn't have said anything, or that maybe he should have reassured Tweek instead of pushing him away – but _fuck_. Really, Clyde? Of all the people for Tweek to become jealous and suspicious of, he chose motherfucking _Clyde_? Clyde is the _last_ person on the planet that Craig would sleep with. He'd rather have a night in the sack with Eric Cartman than ruin his friendship with Clyde.

He groans in his frustration and kicks a rock off down the road, before he turns and walks back to Clyde's.

Once in the door, Clyde pulls himself away from the television. He's wearing pajamas and his letterman jacket, and envelops Craig in a firm hug as Craig kicks off his shoes.

"Is Tweek okay?" he asks.

Craig shakes his head. Something down inside him tells him that he should find Tweek and say sorry, but he sees Clyde's understanding, half-smiling face and doesn't fucking feel like apologizing to Tweek, who insulted the nicest kid in the fucking world.

"Was it bad?"

"I found him wrapped up on his couch," Craig says softly, remembering that Tweek still had tearstained cheeks, like even his mom and a cup of tea couldn't make it better. Craig adds, "He was mad because – he thought that you and I were fucking? I guess. I told him he was crazy, and he just like…went off."

"Dude," Clyde says, in the tone that says he wants to tell Craig that it will be alright, except that Craig actually fucked up and that he doesn't want to have to be the one to tell him.

Craig gives Clyde a hard stare and says, "Look, I'll just apologize at school tomorrow."

"He got expelled?" Clyde reminds Craig, his tone suggesting that he's asking a question, as though Craig would refute that Tweek did, in fact, get expelled.

Craig frowns at this and corrects, "Okay, I'll go and see him after school or something." Tweek probably won't want him there, but whatever, Mrs. Tweak will probably let Craig in anyway.

"Maybe you should let him kiss you a little more," Clyde says, "I mean, he seemed pretty worked up about that."

"Yeah," agrees Craig absently. Maybe he was colder than he intended. He always fucking does that, his moods turning too hot or too cold, never able to keep it at a smooth, medium temperature like people like Clyde or Kenny or Bebe can do.

Sensing Craig's mood, Clyde drops the subject. He offers to make them some food and microwaves a batch of Pizza Rolls, which they split in front of the television, watching some show about hoarders. The houses look like extreme versions of the Tweaks' house.

After that thought, Craig isn't in the mood to hang out anymore, and declines when Clyde asks if he wants to play Mario Kart some more. He instead takes out Zim and Gir, glumly setting up some things for them to run around through on the carpet, while he finishes his homework in his lap. Craig knows he handled Tweek badly. So he sends a text – just a quick, _hey im sorry okay. _After ten minutes of no response, Craig figures that Tweek needs some time by himself, and will probably give him the silent treatment at school tomorrow.

Again, Craig has to remind himself of Tweek's expulsion. He feels his chest clench up when he remembers how upset that Tweek looked earlier that night, when Craig had come to visit him. This whole situation makes it easy for him to avoid Craig, unfortunately. He resolves irritably that he'll walk to the Tweaks' tomorrow, and prays that despite the fact that he managed to upset Tweek into a tantrum, that they'll let him make amends.

Gir pads up to Craig and looks up at him, his beady eyes shining as though he's greatly concerned for him.

"Thanks, dude," Craig says, pulling Gir up into his hands and letting him sit on his shoulder while he finishes the rest of his assigned math problems.

When he's done, Craig replaces the guinea pigs in their cage and cleans up the mess they made on the floor. He wraps himself up in his blankets.

Feeling oddly desperate, he shoots off another text: _your not crazy._

Satisfied that this is all he can do, Craig falls into a fitful sleep, filled with strange monsters that wear his own face, and chant the word _crazy. _

The next morning Craig feels worn and uncomfortable, his head throbbing a little bit as though he let himself get too thirsty. He falls asleep on the short bus ride to Park County High, letting his head flop over onto Clyde's shoulder. Clyde is too nice to wake him up until they're sitting in front of the building and most of the students have already filed out of the bus.

Craig falls asleep in half of his classes, nodding off through droning lectures and a lab in science class, a nap that by some miracle went interrupted – maybe the teachers feel guilty about making him feel like such an idiot. And if getting put in the hospital by his father has been good for nothing else, he can say that his teachers allow him to sleep through class more often.

He checks his phone obsessively, turning the screen on every few minutes to see if he's gotten a response to last night's texts from Tweek. The reception is bad, though, and nothing ever pops upon his screen. He thinks that sending a third text may come off as too desperate, though, and so with each temptation he has to apologize again, or even swear to Tweek that he loves him, Craig pockets his phone. He feels as though his insides are all sinking down low, so low inside of him that his stomach starts to hurt.

At lunch, Butters is the first to ask, "You feelin' alright, Craig?"

Craig is tempted to respond pointedly with, _shut up, Butters_, but instead he mumbles at his tray of cheap food, "I was an asshole."

The others at the table look up curiously at the declaration, as though Craig had claimed something outrageous, like 'the sky is purple' or 'I am actually a llama.'

"He got into a fight with Tweek," Clyde clarifies for the rest of the lunch table, "it wasn't a big deal though, right, man?" He gives Craig a pleading look, asking him to tell him that the words Craig said weren't that bad, that Tweek just got angry and went home.

But he doesn't know where Tweek went.

Then again, Tweek can't go for long without his mother. He's even worse than Clyde is when it comes to being a mama's boy. Surely he would have gone home as soon as he realized how cold and hungry he was.

Craig can almost feel the blood drain out of his face when that thought flickers into his mind, and he shoves it deep down in a dark corner of his brain, laughing halfheartedly at a dick joke that Kenny makes, and actually laughing when he sees how hard Butters is blushing beside Kenny, as though Kenny revealed the intimate details of something they'd done together in bed.

By the time that Craig exits the building after school has ended, Bebe on one side of him and Clyde on the other, he feels better. He's getting a lift to Tweek's house from Bebe, and will apologize profusely (something that he's decided to tell Tweek no one else must know about), and that will be that. They'll probably have makeup sex and watch something stupid that Tweek likes, and have muffins that Mrs. Tweak made or something.

Except that Mrs. Tweak is standing in front of the school. She's pacing, ringing her hands in worry. Her hair looks almost like her son's does on a daily basis, uncombed and tangled. The moment that she catches sight of Craig she pounces. She sprints to them, her eyes big with worry. She looks so like Tweek that it's uncanny, and makes Craig feel a little unsettled.

"Have you seen Tweek?" she asks, gripping Craig's hands in hers so tightly that he can feel her nails.

Craig shakes his head, "Um. I thought he was home?"

"He didn't come home last night," Mrs. Tweak replies frantically, "I thought maybe he spent the night with you and Clyde, but he didn't come home this morning, either. It's – it's all snowy – what if he – he…" she trails off and releases Craig's hands, wiping her face with the back of her hands.

Craig is frozen to the spot. Whatever that was inside of him that made him feel okay shatters into ten million tiny little shards, cutting him up. He doesn't know what to say at first – because what _can _he say? He doesn't want to have to tell Tweek's mom the things that he said.

Oh, God.

He was terrible. Craig was so horrible. Why did he do that? He doesn't even remember what his reason was, and now all he can think is _stupid, stupid, stupid. _

"I'm so sorry," Craig chokes out. He doesn't know what else to do, so he does what he thinks that Clyde would do in this situation and hugs Mrs. Tweak to his chest, "I – he and I got into a fight. I thought he'd just go home, but –" He doesn't know why he's hugging Tweek's mom, but she's always been there when Tweek has, always willing to help, except with baked goods and advice instead of handcuffed sex and drugs, like with Tweek.

"Oh, fuck," is what Mrs. Tweak says next, when she pulls away from Craig, "he must have had an episode. He could be anywhere. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

"We'll look for him," Kenny volunteers, his voice a surrogate for Craig's, who can't think of anything to say while he's this stunned, this angry at himself.

"I have a car," Bebe says, "Kenny and Token and I can go look for him in the neighborhoods. Butters, too. And maybe Craig and Clyde can go with you?"

"The sun's gonna go down," Token pointedly says. God, fuck – it's the middle of winter. The sun will be gone completely in two hours, tops.

Clyde chips in, "I've got a couple of flashlights."

"Me too," Butters says. His cheeks turn pink, as though he believes he's done something wrong by offering his help.

They split, then, heading off to two different sections of the school parking lot. Craig and Clyde have to jog to keep up with Mrs. Tweak, even though she's wearing high heels. She doesn't bother disguising her distress, swearing at the other cars when they don't move quickly enough out of the slush-saturated parking lot.

"I don't care if there's fucking snow on the ground!" she shouts, "You're a Coloradan, grow the fuck up!"

She's making Craig anxious. He doesn't know how to handle it, and he doesn't want to tell somebody's mother to shut the fuck up because they're stressing him out, so he grips Clyde's sweaty hand so hard that his knuckles go white.

Clyde says, "Craig, I'm sure he's fine," but he doesn't sound sincere, and that makes it feel worse.

As soon as they're out of the lot, Mrs. Tweak speeds through the snow, slipping and not caring, until she comes to a dangerous halt in front of Clyde's house. She tells them to hurry, and they do, scrambling inside the house, dropping their backpacks on the floor, and gathering anything they might need into Clyde's old backpack from elementary school – a Spiderman one, with a yellow zipper.

They've got less than a couple of hours to find Tweek before the sun disappears. It's fortunate that the sun even came out today in the first place, and Craig prays to himself that a day of sunshine somehow outdid a night of snow. Already shadows are lengthening, and the sun stings Craig's eyes. It's still warm, warm enough that Tweek should be okay, he tells himself. He doesn't know that, though. Not knowing is killing him, but it makes his feet and heart and head work faster, running through a list of places in his head that Tweek could have gone to.

Since Bebe and the others decided to sweep the neighborhood, Mrs. Tweak parks at the edge of Main Street, the tiny commercial area paid attention to only by passing truckers or the residents themselves. Clyde takes one side of the street while Craig and Mrs. Tweak take the other, ducking into shops and asking if any of the people inside have seen Tweek recently.

The answer is no.

The answer keeps being no, in every shop, from every person.

_No, we haven't seen Tweek, _they all say, _do you need help looking for him_? Asked with pitying looks and slight frowns, these people look more worried for Mrs. Tweak than her schizophrenic son, the boy that Craig triggered into an episode, and the boy that he loves ridiculously despite everything between and around them.

And then, as they trek toward the last shop on their side of the street, it occurs Craig –

Tweek always goes on a walk when he's upset or stressed, and he always walks to the woods. Fuck. There are no streetlights in that direction, and the sun is barely peeking out from behind the mountains. He stops Mrs. Tweak with a hand on her arm and says, "We should check the woods. Near Stark's Pond. He goes there sometimes when he wants to meditate."

"Of course," Mrs. Tweak mumbles, as though she's baffled why she didn't think of this first.

They cross the street to Clyde, who looks upset that he hasn't had any luck. He says softly, when Craig and Mrs. Tweak collect him, "He must be cold."

Craig's shoulders fall. It is cold. As the sun sinks, he feels the air grow colder still. The light leaks away from them, leaving behind a ticking clock that says that they have to find Tweek. They have to find him, or he could freeze to death out here.

They speed to Stark's Pond, faster than Craig knew Mrs. Tweak would dare to drive. Apparently, Bebe and the others had the same idea as they had, that Tweek could be in the woods. Their car is parked there, too, empty. Through darkly silhouetted trees, Craig spots short-lived flashes of yellow light, and hears faint calls of _Tweek! Tweek! _He doesn't know why they're all helping him like this - this is all Craig's fault, all caused by his stupid mistake - but he's grateful that they're doing it nevertheless.

"Tweek!" calls Clyde, following suit and cupping his hands around his mouth as he raises his voice, "Tweek, can you hear me?" His voice does nothing but echo hopelessly into the trees, rustling a little with the chilly breeze that has accompanied the setting sun. Clyde digs the flashlights out of his backpack, handing Mrs. Tweak and Craig the bigger of the three, even though Clyde doesn't like the dark.

Craig tromps through the trees, stopping and shifting his flashlight from side to side every so often. The beam of light makes the shadows of the trees stretch out like phantoms. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. All he can think of is how the trees must have looked to Tweek if he disappeared into them. Craig calls, "Tweek!" But no answer comes, and desperation stirs in him harder than ever before.

The foot of new snow soaks through Craig's sneakers as he slogs through it. Below it, the icy snow from before makes Craig slip and slide through the trees. He trips on a hidden tree root, falling onto his hands. His flashlight falls halfway into the snow, shining out a strange, dim beam out across the floor of the woods.

That's when he sees it – a blond head and set of shoulders poking out of the foot of snow, leaning against a tree.

"Tweek!" he hoarsely shouts. Craig yanks himself to his feet and dashes through the snow. He yells behind him, "I found him! Somebody help!"

Craig falls to his knees beside where Tweek lies, buried by snow. It looks as though it's been disturbed, like he tried to pull himself out of it, and couldn't quite manage it. Craig touches Tweek's throat, feeling for a pulse.

Oh, God. He's alive. He's _alive._

"Tweek," Craig says, shaking him by the shoulders. Craig dips his hands into the layer of snow, heaving Tweek's body out of it. It's cold. Fuck, he's so cold. He shakes Tweek again, but when Craig speaks, his voice cracks, "Tweek – please wake up."

"Craig! Where are you?" calls Kenny's voice.

"Over here!" Craig spits out behind him. He clicks his flashlight on and off a few times before turning his attention to Tweek, shaking him again, "Please," he begs, "Please wake up. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean any of it. You're perfect, okay? Just _wake up._"

"You can't fool me."

It's just a whisper, the smallest sound, but it came from Tweek.

"You want to eat me up," Tweek says, "Lucky for you I can't move. But it's mean that you – you s-stole Craig's skin." His teeth are chattering.

"No, Tweek, it's me," Craig says.

"You're not Craig," disagrees Tweek, "you smelled my blood and decided I must taste good."

"What blood – _oh my God._"

Tweek's legs are all sliced up, his jeans in tatters near his thighs. The denim is soaked with so much blood – too much blood.

Craig yells again, "For the love of God, somebody fucking help us!"

In the meantime, Craig does the only thing he can think to do: He plays along. He pets a hand through Tweek's hair and says, "I was a monster – I mean, um, a monster took my skin? But, um, I fought him, okay? And I got my body back, and now it's me. Just Craig, okay?"

Tweek's eyes, barely open, seem to change with this new information. He smiles a small smile and says, "Craig," very softly.

"Yeah," Craig says, "It's me. Those things – that the monster said – none of them are true, okay? You're not crazy, you're perfect. You're perfect the way you are, and I love all of you, alright? Just hang on for me. You're gonna be fine."

"I love you too," responds Tweek. His eyelids flutter, and Craig's heart drops.

"No, no, no, don't do that," he says. He cries out, "Where the fuck are you guys? Help me!"

Clyde is the first to appear. He takes one look at Craig and Tweek stuck in the snow and swears, "Shit," before casting his flashlight aside. He grips Tweek under his arms and commands Craig, "Get his legs, we'll get him into his mom's car, okay?"

Craig feels a rush of relief at knowing his best friend is a football player and can pick up even somebody as tall as Tweek is. Craig grips Tweek's legs and heaves him up in sync with Clyde, just as Kenny and Butters appear through a clump of trees. Butters ducks down and collects the discarded flashlights, while Kenny rushes forward to help Craig and Clyde with carrying Tweek.

"Fuck," Mrs. Tweak says, when she sees her son, "my sweetheart – Tweek, can you hear me?"

"Hi mama," he says, even though his eyes are closed, "Craig fought his monster and he says he loves me."

Mrs. Tweak starts to cry and says, "Of course he loves you, honey."

Clyde places Tweek in the backseat and Craig buckles him in, climbing in next to him. He digs around in Clyde's Spiderman backpack and pulls out a bottle of water that Clyde threw into it at the last moment. Craig twists off the cap and holds it up to Tweek's lips. He says, "Please drink it," unable to form an order, just pleas. Tweek nods and swallows when Craig tips just a trickle of water into his mouth.

Mrs. Tweak blasts the heater, and Craig strips off Tweek's trench, which is soaked through. He spares a thought for Tweek's modesty as he starts on his jeans, but they're even wetter than his coat. Tweek tosses his head and says absently, "We can't fuck now, asshole, my mom's in the car."

"We're not fucking," Craig says, "You're supposed to take wet clothes off – fuck, your shoes."

Craig ducks to unlace Tweek's boots, pulling them off urgently. Though Tweek's briefs are wet, too, Craig leaves them on, holding Tweek close to him and hoping that his body heat will warm him up. It feels as though he's hugging an ice statue.

"Try and get him to drink more water," Clyde says, "His fucking hands – shit."

Craig tries not to stare at them. Parts of his fingers are black with frostbite.

Mrs. Tweak skids and stops directly before the front door to the hospital, abandoning the car as Clyde helps pull Tweek out of the back, holding him over his shoulder while Craig sprints behind them, his clothing soaked from the snow, and his heart beating faster than he can think.

The nurses disappear with Tweek and his mother, but bar Craig and Clyde from coming. They're banished to the waiting room, where Token, Kenny, Bebe and Butters join them. Craig hangs onto Clyde and lets Bebe rub his shoulder, unable to speak. Of all the fucked up things he's done, this is the worst.

"It's all my fault," he says.

"Baby, don't say that," Bebe scolds, "He's sick – that's not your fault."

But he said the worst things. Craig doesn't even realize that he's crying until one tear leaks out. He swipes at his face while the rest of them stare at him. Craig tears himself out of Clyde and Bebe's grip and announces, "I'm going to the bathroom." He makes his escape quickly, slamming the door behind him, even though it swings.

Craig stares at himself in the mirror. He's blotchy eyed and sick looking, even worse than he looked when he first came to Clyde's after being released from this same place, this hellhole. He splashes water onto his face and tells himself to breathe, holding his face in his hands.

Just before Craig closes himself in a stall, Kenny slips into the restroom.

"Craig, dude," he says.

But Craig cuts him off, "Fuck off, McCormick."

"Stop it," Kenny says, "I don't care what you said to him, okay? It's not your fault. He loves you. Now come back and sit with the rest of us. We're all your friends, and none of us are going to fucking judge you if you get upset about everything. Look, I'm scared. We all are. Tweek is awesome. For fucking once, could you stop trying to do everything by yourself and let people help?"

Craig stares at Kenny, hard. Even when Craig clenches his fist, Kenny doesn't flinch away. He doesn't know how long they stand like that, but it's when Craig's eyes lower and sees a familiar cigarette burn on the inside of Kenny's arm that he stumbles forward.

Kenny wraps his skinny arms around Craig and says, "We care about you, dude."

Craig doesn't say anything, but he does loosely hug Kenny back. Kenny gets the message – Craig cares too, though he doesn't know how to say it.

When he and Kenny return to the waiting room, Tweek's father has arrived. A nurse is leading him back away from the rest of them. Craig wishes that he could go, too.

He can't take back the words that he said. Crazy, irrational Tweek.

But Craig was the one being irrational. And he was crazy to hurt somebody that makes his chest feel this tight, that makes him actually fucking cry, that makes him give a damn about something beyond himself.

Fuck, Tweek gave him a reason to want to get out of bed in the morning. Tweek came around when Craig felt so alone that he could barely function.

He doesn't know how much later it is when a frazzled-looking nurse stands in front of the cluster of exhausted teenagers in the waiting room and scans them. He says, "Is one of you Craig?"

Craig yanks out of Clyde's grip and says, "That's me."

"Great," the nurse responds, "Tweek Tweak keeps asking for you – his parents said it's okay for you to come back."

Craig glances back at his friend before he goes, and tries to smile, but can't. He keeps on the heels of the nurse, navigating hallways that are too familiar to him. He hates this place, hates how everybody inevitably ends up here, attached to machines just like he was.

In his room, Tweek is hooked up to an IV. A doctor brushes past Craig as he stumbles into the room, and Mr. and Mrs. Tweak follow him. Mrs. Tweak pauses to grip Craig's hand and says, "We just have to talk to the doctor for a minute, honey. Look after him, okay?"

Craig nods dumbly and looks back at Tweek, who is barely less pale than his own pillow.

"Hi Craig," he says, when Craig takes the place that Mrs. Tweak was sitting in. Tweak's hands are bandaged, so Craig holds onto his arm instead. He leans down and presses his forehead to Tweek's kissing there.

Tweek deliriously smiles back at him when Craig pulls away. He rasps, "You were a monster, Craig…but you found your body again. I'm so happy that you found your body."

And finally, Craig collapses. Tweek doesn't mind if he cries, he knows, and so he cries harder, holding onto Tweek's arm like it's the only thing keeping him from getting sucked into Hell. And maybe it is – maybe in a strange, twisted way, Tweek has been the one keeping _him_ sane.

"Why are you crying?" asks Tweek. He reaches out with a bandaged hand and pets over Craig's hat. He says, "You fought all the monsters. You're a hero."

Craig covers his face with one hand, still clinging to Tweek with the other. He can't think of anything to say. He's so mixed up, so _fucked _up. There's nothing he can do now to fix what he's already done. So he just mutters, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything," Craig answers, "I love you, okay?"

"Me too," Tweek says, instead of 'I love you, too,' and Craig suddenly realizes why it sucks not to have somebody say it back when you want them to. Tweek looks as though he's about to fall asleep, dazed and disoriented, blinking his eyes whenever they look to be getting distant.

The doctor returns with the Tweaks and says, "Tweek needs to get his rest – we'll be keeping him here for at least a few nights." The doctor seems to be saying this for Craig's benefit, as the Tweaks nod like they've already heard this spiel before.

Craig doesn't think he's supposed to kiss Tweek, but he does it anyway, just a peck before he pulls himself out of the room. He watches at the door frame while the Tweaks tell their son goodbye and reassure him that they'll be back tomorrow.

When Tweek's parents exit the room, Mrs. Tweak pulls Craig into a hug and says, "This is comforting to him, you know. The hospital routine. He's been here so many times. I think he likes it, because it's a place that will never change."

Craig doesn't respond. He just wipes off his face, embarrassed, now that more than Tweek can see that he's been crying.

"He likes you, too," Mrs. Tweak says gently.

"I love him," Craig declares. He'll never fucking forget to say it again. God, he doesn't know how he could be embarrassed by loving somebody – maybe because it's never happened before, and he didn't know how to react. He doesn't know what he would have done if Tweek died – with the last thing Tweek heard from Craig's lips being "You better run away, you crazy fuckwad!"

Then Craig says, "I won't change, either. I'll always be here."

He doesn't know if this will always be true, but he says it anyway.

Mrs. Tweak smiles at him, and wraps an arm around his shoulder as they amble back toward the waiting room.

At least for now, Craig will always be here.

_Fin_

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay guys – this is the ending chapter! There is an epilogue, though (And it's happier than this, swearsies).**

**Thank you to my awesome reviewers that keep me encouraged the entire way through: BattyCore, Crazy88inator, w0rmsign, KeiMaxwell, Kuutamolla, MailxJeevasxFTW, Yui 88, NSRForevermore, prettyoddrydonfan, mallorymichael, lilykinz200, ****XxCandiigrlszxX****, DahmerEatsRainbows, Druekee, Cchall, RaiineDays, WizardBeards, theyellowsky, KirstenTheDestroyer, ****Shakuhachi Jade, and Sunshine-aki.**

**A special thank you to Dave and Emma for being betas in my time of need!**

**And also I forgot to thank a bunch of artists last time and I am really sorry! So thank you to Chasing Rabbits, mallorymichael, justkidsbeingkids, funnyhatz, sugarbonesloli, and Druekee.**


	20. Epilogue: Fighting Your Own War

**Ending Credits: Baptized by Fire – Spinnerette**

**Five Months Later**

Craig doesn't have a ticket – they cost ninety bucks apiece, so fuck that noise – but he does have a suit. Clyde insisted that they rent one for him, too, even if he is only going to be in the group photos before the dance. Originally, Clyde had wanted Craig to come along (and pleaded with him), but in the end he'd lost, on the condition that Craig at least be photographed with the rest of them. Craig has never liked the idea of school dances, let alone prom, which seems merely to be a fancy excuse to fuck somebody.

He checks himself out in the bathroom mirror, and deems that he looks as good as it's going to get. And that Tweek will probably make fun of him for having clean hair.

"Craig, dude?" Clyde knocks on the bathroom door, "Everybody's here. We've got to get going to dinner soon – are you sure that you don't want to come?"

Craig pulls open the door and steps out. He shakes his head and says, "You know I promised Tweek I'd be with him."

"I know," Clyde says, a little forlornly. Clyde wears his tux well. It looks good over his solid body, fitted to perfection with Bebe's help. His tie is aqua colored, Craig assumes to match Millie's dress.

He slips past Clyde into his bedroom, which has become a complete wreck, and slips his hat back onto his head before saluting his guinea pigs with a, "I'll be back later tonight, boys."

"Come on, man, not the hat," Clyde protests.

"Don't test me, Donovan," responds Craig.

Clyde rolls his eyes and shoves Craig, and Craig shoves back. They tromp down the stairs, where a handful of people are waiting – Millie, in a short, bubble-skirted dress that does indeed match Clyde's tie, Kenny, Bebe, and Butters, who do not match at all, and Ike, whose suit makes him look younger instead of older, as was probably intended.

Craig feels a little out of body as they all crunch together, their parents holding up cameras and snapping photographs. There are missing parents, too – Craig's, naturally, since they aren't allowed within twenty feet of Craig or his sister, Kenny's, and Butters', who inadvertently discovered last month that he has a skimpy dress collection hiding in the back of his closet.

Craig is a part of all this, sort of, but then not really, because when they leave, he'll be taking a separate car (illegally, as he's only had his permit for a few weeks), to a separate place. And after prom, and graduation, he won't be going to college, at least not in the next year, like everybody else is. Craig doesn't care to.

He slings his arm over Clyde's wide shoulders. Clyde seems genuinely happy with Millie, at least to the degree that he gets excited when she comes over, and is desperate to share tales of their sexcapades with Craig, who wants to hear none of it. She's smiling back at Clyde now, which makes Craig feel good for his best friend. He's always deserved having somebody as enthusiastic about him as he is about them.

Kenny, Bebe, Butters and Ike break away after a few minutes of rearranging poses. Kenny explains, "We have to be at Stan's for pictures there, too."

Craig extracts himself from the cameras after that, letting Clyde and his girlfriend have their moment. They're so fucking _smiley_ together, the two of them. He thought that it would wear off after the first month, but they've been together for three, and still haven't stopped giggling like schoolchildren about each other.

Craig watches Clyde tie a corsage around Millie's wrist, posing mid-tie so that they can snap a picture of the moment. A few minutes later, he and Millie climb into his car, headed toward City Wok for a cheap pre-prom meal. Craig waves as they go.

Mr. Donovan hands Craig another set of car keys, the one to his own car. He says, "Don't tell Martha I let you take it, okay? And don't crash into a tree or anything, because then we'll both have to explain ourselves."

"I won't," Craig promises, feeling confident on the basis that he's been sneaking out in the Donovans' various vehicles rather frequently, anyway, "Thanks. I owe you one."

The stereo is silent during the drive, nice and quiet, just the way Craig likes it. His suit is making him itch a little, though, and he ends up blasting the air conditioner. It's May, and the weather has been all over the place this month. Today, it's chosen to be sunny as fuck and hotter than hell, making Craig sweat underneath this extra, fancy clothing.

Craig parks Mr. Donovan's car in the back of the Hell's Pass parking lot, away from other vehicles. He wonders how long it will take him to get the hang of parking, and judges that for now, he'll stick with parking crookedly on the outskirts of lots.

He takes the elevator up to a familiar floor – the fifth. Labeled beside the round, glowing button are the words "Psychiatric Ward." When he exits, the nurse at the front desk looks up and grins. He's a familiar nurse on this floor, a guy in his mid-twenties named Jason. As Craig approaches the desk, he says, "Hey, Craig. You look fuckin' fancy. You dress up just to see us?"

They bump fists and Craig replies, "Nah, for the prom I'm not going to. But Tweek'll get a kick out of seeing it. How's he doing today, anyway?"

"Good," nods Jason, chewing on the end of his pen, "Better than last time you saw him."

Jason leads Craig back. He passes Tweek's room and brings him to the little community room at the end of the hallway, where the other mostly-permanent residents of the ward hang around when they're reading or watching television, or doing arts and crafts. Craig recognizes familiar faces of patients that he's never bothered to meet. He always wonders if they're friends with Tweek, but Tweek never really mentions having friends here. He likes to be by himself much better.

Jason claps Craig on the shoulder. It makes Craig flinch, still, though he doesn't think that Jason notices. He points to the far left corner of the room, where Tweek is sitting as far away from the windows as he can manage. He doesn't look up when Craig starts approaching, or even when Craig sits across from him at the same table. He's drawing shakily with stiff hands, something that Craig doesn't often see him do anymore – and so he doesn't care to interrupt. The skin on Tweek's hands is still peeling a little, the tips of his pinkies still black.

His hand seems to seize up, and he makes a line across his drawing. Tweek doesn't make a sound, but he does throw his pencil on the floor and rub his hand over his face.

He finally notices Craig, then.

"What the fuck is with the outfit?" he greets, eyeing Craig as though he's wrapped up in a disguise. And in a way, Craig supposes that he is disguised.

"Prom pictures," Craig shrugs.

"You washed your hair," Tweek remarks, reaching across the table to fluff his hand through the hair sticking out from underneath Craig's hat, "You smell like a douchebag."

"Thanks," Craig says, trying not to smile.

"Why aren't you at prom with everybody else?" asks Tweek. They don't really discuss school that much. Sometimes it can be one of Tweek's triggers. He'll think of school, then expulsion and arrest, and then the way that Craig acted a mere handful of hours later.

Craig takes a piece of paper from the end of the table and steals one of Tweek's crayons, a blue one. He absently makes the shape of a wheel, and then another one. Craig just signed up for a tournament, paid for by his meager Tweak Bros paycheck. He's excited, and also a little terrified, since he hasn't competed on his bike since he was fourteen. He says to Tweek, "Do I really seem like the prom type, dipshit."

Tweek says, "No, you seem like an asshole. You wanna dance with me?"

"Not really, no."

"Not even if I wore a pretty gown?" plies Tweek, though he's wearing a shit-eating grin on his face and his eyes are bright with that slice of happiness he takes from irritating Craig.

"Not even then, Tweek," answers Craig.

"Fuck you. You suck."

"That's weird – you usually don't complain about me sucking," Craig mumbles thoughtfully.

Tweek smiles conspiratorially at that. There's one nurse that sometimes supervises the patients – an older lady named Cynthia – that helps them sneak off for awhile for a little bit of privacy, but only if they swear to use protection, which they always do. Even if Craig doesn't think that they're going to get up to anything, he slips a condom in his pocket just in case. There's one in the breast pocket of his button down now, right where he should have tucked some flowers or something equally as uninteresting to him.

"Cynthia's off today," sighs Tweek.

"Bummer," replies Craig. He likes sitting with Tweek while he tries to draw, though. His hands are better, at least better than they have been. The doctors say that Tweek saved his hands by tucking his arms into his coat. His pinkies might still have to go – they can't say for certain until July, though, when his hands have healed more.

Craig reaches across the table and places one of his hands over Tweek's. Tweek quivers a little, and he stares at Craig as though he expects him to do something more. Craig thumbs at the black part of Tweek's pinkie and queries, "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Tweek says. He extracts his hand out from under Craig's and passes Craig a pile of papers. The drawings and handwriting are wobbly, but there's no mistaking what it is, especially when Craig sees the title.

_Are You Mental? #8_

Tweek finally produced the seventh issue last month, after grueling work that probably did Tweek more harm than good. Craig made copies at Kinko's, and he and Bebe put them in the school bathrooms the next day. The school is still looking for who did it, and they've got their eye on Craig, although nothing proves that he's done it beyond the fact that he's dating the mastermind behind the zine. Craig has made plans with Ike (who's asking for a buttload of money for this favor) to keep it up next year, and the zine will be made available at Tweak Bros for free.

Craig takes the papers and sets them down next to him on the bench. Tweek, meanwhile, plucks his pencil up off of the floor and erases the line that the jerk of his hand made. He sketches a little more, and Craig watches. The drawings aren't as seamlessly detailed as they used to be, but they have a new charm, or so he thinks. The imperfection that Tweek's injured fingers creates gives them a newer feeling, something that sinks under Craig's skin even deeper than Tweek's technically beautiful drawings did.

"Hey, Craig?"

"Mm."

"Remember when you told me that you fought your monster?" he asks, still sketching, and not glancing up.

"Yeah," answers Craig, cautiously. They're not supposed to talk about his episode. Not really. He hasn't had episodes as big since, though several smaller incidents have dotted his stay in the hospital, and kept him from release.

Tweek goes on, "You were lying, weren't you? There wasn't a monster. You were the one that said those things."

Craig feels his heart sink down a little. He frowns at Tweek, who still isn't looking at him. Carefully, he responds, "Yeah…but I didn't mean them." They've never talked about this before, about how Craig played along because he wanted to be able to hold Tweek and be close to him without frightening him.

"I know you didn't," replies Tweek, "I just wanted to make sure that I really was the only one that saw monsters."

Maybe he should apologize, but Craig can't find the words to do that. Instead, he says, "Hey. I love you, okay?"

Tweek doesn't respond. He keeps sketching. It's an elementary-looking skeleton, wearing a mustache and drinking out of a tankard filled with eyes. Tweek's brows furrow as he tries to fill in some of the finer details on the eyeballs, but his hand won't move the way he wants. He grunts in frustration, and tries again. A thick, black pencil mark streaks across the entire illustration.

"Fuck!" Tweek shouts, loud enough for everybody to hear. They must be used to it, though, because none of the other patients in the room even look up, and a nurse comes jogging over.

Tweek sweeps his hands across the table, knocking his crayons, artwork, pencils and paper to the floor. He stands and yells, "I can't do anything right anymore!"

The nurse dives into comfort Tweek, but Craig holds out a hand. He slides out of his spot and wraps his arms around Tweek's middle. Tweek is panting and trying not to cry. Craig can hear it. He's heard it many times before, and will probably hear the horrible catch in Tweek's breath many times again. He pets a hand through Tweek's long hair, which is inexplicably combed, and eases Tweek's head onto his shoulder.

"Hey, your art is fine," Craig says.

Tweek wails, "Everything I draw turns into an ugly piece of shit."

"You're being a drama queen," Craig says, "and I'm not indulging you."

"You're a cockhead," complains Tweek.

"I know," Craig answers. He kisses the top of Tweek's head, where it still rests on Craig's shoulder.

A moment later, Tweek must feel guilty for calling Craig a cockhead, because he whispers, "I love you."

And Craig replies, "I know."

_The End_

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my reviewers: w0rmsign, Yui 88, DahmerEatsRainbows, Kuutamolla, Sunshine-aki, VannaUsagi13, Bubbl3wrapguy, lilykinz200, WizardBeards, XxCandiigrlsxX, Mysterion, Shakuhachi Jade, MailxJeevasxFTW, prettyoddrydonfan, Druekee, KirstenTheDestroyer, BattyCore, KeiMaxwell, KrakenRepellent, RaiineDays, and givemeana.**

**Thank you all for reading and your continued support! The end of this fic marks the beginning of my break from chapter fic for awhile. I will have some oneshots out, but then I'm taking it easy for a bit.**

**The best place to go to find out more about what I'm writing is my tumblr, which is also scarlettshazam. **


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